


Acquainted with the Night

by LadyLisa



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Artists, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Historical Hetalia, Love Letters, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Pianist Austria (Hetalia), Romance, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-06-24 15:58:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 29,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19726936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLisa/pseuds/LadyLisa
Summary: After Feliciano and Ludwig act on a desperate plan to escape the Eastern Front both of them will somehow have to find a way back home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Translation notes [my German isn't great rip :,)]:  
> Sie müssen atmen! - You need to breathe!  
> Geht’s dir gut? - Are you okay?  
> Sprichst du Englisch? - Do you speak English?
> 
> Also the chapter titles are from Robert Frost's "Acquainted With the Night."

_October 1941_

Ludwig curled his arms to his chest, tucking his hands beneath his chin, trying to warm his stiff fingers. The tell-tale signs of winter had settled in, winding down through the gaps in his clothes, clinging close to his skin, sharpening the sky. The biting air made his brain feel slow, or perhaps it was the lack of sleep, but somewhere in his tripping thoughts he remembered the day. 

October second. He would be turning seventeen tomorrow, half-frozen out on an empty stretch of featureless, unfamiliar land, struggling to count the reasons to bother living another year. He thought of that sharp whistle of shells, and the snap of rifles, how he had burned his hand on his gun one of the first days out on the front because he didn’t realize it would get so hot. 

The dull feeling of nervousness sharpened suddenly and he dug his nails into his knuckles. He could feel his pulse pick up and his breath began to swallow, like his lungs were refusing the air he gulped down. 

_I’m alright. I’m alright. It’ll be over soon, it will, it will…_ He tried to calm down. He pressed his fingers to his jugular, focusing on getting his heartbeat back down, all the while chanting the same words over and over in his head. He didn’t know if they really did anything anymore, they certainly weren’t now. He shut his eyes as tightly as he could, still struggling to calm down, but his heartbeat wouldn’t slow and his fingertips were starting to tingle, his chest aching from his cutting breaths. His vision was tunneling, he had to bite his tongue so he didn’t cry out. 

He felt a hand on his arm then. “ _Atmen!_ ” Ludwig gasped and looked down at the face of one of the soldiers who had been slumped beside him, his face was anxious beneath the layer of dirt. “ _Sie müssen atmen_.” He struggled with the words, rushed them, either from panic or because of his unfamiliarity for the language. 

Ludwig nodded and closed his eyes again, leaning back against the low hills they were hunkered down behind and inhaling lungfuls of the unforgiving, cold air. His breath came in short huddles of vapor below the mauve-mottled sky, hot against his freezing face. The hand on his arm was steady, warm, and Ludwig leaned into it. He might have shied away from a stranger’s touch months ago, but now he dreaded the moment the soldier took his hand back. 

After a few moments he sat up straight. Fixed his helmet. Regained his composure. “ _Geht’s dir gut_?” 

Ludwig nodded. “ _Sprichst du Englisch?”_ He nodded. “Thank you,” Ludwig murmured. “I’m sorry I lost my composure. I won’t let it happen again. I haven’t slept in a while, that’s all,” Ludwig insisted, rubbing his face. 

“You don’t have to be so formal,” he said, extending a hand. “Feliciano Vargas.” His smile was so gentle, so sincere. Ludwig hadn’t seen anyone smile like that since he had been back home when it was still peacetime. Ludwig shook his hand once before letting go.

“Ludwig Beilschmidt,” he said. “You’re not German. Where are you from?” 

“Italy.” 

“Ah, of course,” Ludwig muttered. A lone gunshot sounded from beside them, surrounded by a flurry of angry yells at a private who had peeked around the edge of the hill. Feliciano flinched and pressed himself against the hill, glancing overhead, watching for bullets. The dirt was uncomfortably stiff with one of the early frosts that had started a few weeks prior. 

“I was fighting for the Allies,” Feliciano whispered, still looking up. He was clutching his gun but he shook so badly Ludwig doubted he could have kept a finger steady on the trigger. “I was captured and they gave me a choice, either a POW camp or a spot in the Wehrmacht.” Feliciano glance over at Ludwig, as if expecting, or perhaps hoping for, a response. 

But Ludwig said nothing, only faced the empty field beyond where they sat, seemingly endless, like he could run forever and never touch the horizon. He did not intend to make friends here, not with these people. 

So they didn’t speak, but Feliciano stayed closed beside Ludwig as the deepened twilight waned into night. There were no more shots. Feliciano fell asleep early in the night and Ludwig must have too, but he woke when the temperature plunged. 

Ludwig wiggled his toes, his freezing fingertips. He stretched his cramped legs and slid the sleeve of his jacket back to squint at the face of his watch. He watched the small second hand ticking its way towards the twelve beneath the glass. 

“What time is it?” Feliciano asked. His voice shook with the cold. 

“Almost midnight,” Ludwig whispered back, looking over at Feliciano. Feliciano gave a sad smile.

“What day is it?” he murmured. 

“October second.” Ludwig kept staring at his watch. A birthday felt altogether utterly unimportant sitting here on the Eastern Front, huddled behind a hill he had been behind since God only knew when. He had spent half his time on the front staring at his watch, counting seconds, minutes, hours, now months. He watched the hands keep counting down, up their way to midnight. 

“I’m… I’m seventeen,” Ludwig whispered at his watch. 

Feliciano glanced at him. “Is it your birthday?” Feliciano asked in an excited whisper-yell. 

“Y-yes,” Ludwig said, the cold making his voice falter. Feliciano dug in his pocket and pulled out a silver lighter with a victorious grin. It was engraved with the initials _LRV_ near the base, stained copper from the solitary lamp several men were crouched around nearby, fumbling to read a map. 

“We don’t have candles,” he added with a shrug. Ludwig resisted the urge to roll his eyes as Feliciano said, “make a wish!” but he closed them and wished. After all, he was in desperate need of one. 

He wished he could go home. He wished, if the universe would not give him that, then he could at least leave the front lines. Then he changed his mind and wished only that he could be happy again. 

Ludwig gave a nod and the lighter flicked close. “Happy birthday, Ludwig!” Feliciano said. 

“Thanks,” Ludwig muttered, finding a smile creeping on his cold, chapped lips. “Who’s LRV?” 

“My older brother, Lovino,” Feliciano said, meeting Ludwig’s eyes as he tucked the lighter away. There was a chink of lamplight across his cheek, staining his eyes bronze, dripping like honey down the loose strands of his dirt-caked hair beneath his helmet. 

“He was fighting for the Allies too,” Feliciano said. “But he got shot in the hip and couldn’t walk for a while, so he was taken out of the service. The last letter I got from him said he could wal alright now, but he has to use a walking stick. He says it makes him feel like an old man.” Feliciano laughed a little under his breath. “I wish I could write him, but…” Feliciano sighed and leaned against the hill, pulling his arms into his sleeves and tucking them to his chest. 

Ludwig nodded. What he would give for another letter. His own brother had sent him one bearing birthday wishes that had come a week ago, one that was currently tucked in his inside pocket with his papers. He missed his brother. His missed his whole family, and his own bed, and his books, his village. 

Ludwig remembered the day he had been conscripted. He remembered wandering around his room, fumbling his possessions, wondering what he could bring and what was even worth it. He remembered collapsing on his bed and clutching at the edge of his mattress because he was desperate for his hands not to shake, staring at the floor and biting back tears. 

And through the wall Gilbert was yelling in the hallway, wearing down the same words to sounds that no longer had any sort of significance. _He’s just a kid, he’s just a kid!_ Ludwig had half wanted to argue. No, he wasn’t a child. He would be eighteen in two years. But children were the ones who so often felt powerless, and unknowing, and terrified, who waited for someone to take the weight of their shoulders because heavy responsibilities were adults’ crosses to bear. 

_“They can’t make him join the war, they can’t take him! Please, Papa, please… Don’t let them, Papa, don’t let them, please, he’s just a little boy, he can’t…”_

Aldrich had barked at him to stand up. Ludwig had never heard him speak so harshly before, and it made his mouth wither and his vision cloud with tears he wouldn’t let fall. And then he had said, _“What do you think I could possibly do?”_ And Ludwig had put his face in his hands.

No longer was the world so small that his parents were his protector and his punisher from everything. Now it was out of his father’s hands. 

_“If he can fight, he has to fight.”_

_“He is a_ child _.”_

 _“Do you think I don’t understand that? He’s my son! They’re taking_ my son _away from me, how do you think I don’t understand that?”_

Ludwig exhaled the ghostly voices in his head. He breathed deep of reality, of the cold, of Feliciano watching the empty sky beside him. 

“You should sleep. You look tired,” Feliciano murmured. 

Ludwig nodded and lay down on the stiff dirt. 

“I hope your wish comes true, Ludwig,” Feliciano said. Ludwig thanked him quietly. 

“Me too.” 


	2. Chapter 2

_Dear Ludwig,_

_I hope this gets to you sometime around your birthday. I wrote it as early as I could, but I don’t really know the situation out there on the front, so if this is disastrously late I’m sorry._

_Anyways, happy birthday! Did you celebrate at all? At all, at all? It’s probably not the optimal circumstances for celebration, but I hope you got something anyway. I got you something for when you come home. I think you’ll really like it, and I had Elizabeta help me pick it out so you know it’s actually something you’ll want, I promise._

_Roderich and Elizabeta are living with us. Roderich’s parents got him out of Austria as soon as they could. Not many people know they Edelsteins even had a son, and I guess they figure he’ll be safe out here in the country with us. I hope they’re right. He’s not too bad of a guest; he cleans up after himself and all that, and sometimes he makes pastries when he can. But he also plays the most depressing music I’ve ever heard and it’s quite upsetting._

_I don’t know if you can write me back, but we hope you can, even if it’s just a word (or two, if you feel generous, of course)._

_We miss you. We love you. Please come home safe._

_Sincerely,_

_Gilbert_

Ludwig stared at his brother’s letter for several minutes until he felt his throat getting tight. He refolded it and tucked it back inside his pocket with his papers, sighing out his nose. His gun was a dull pain against his shoulder, and he stared listlessly at the boundless run to horizon until he heard a shot from behind him. 

Someone grabbed him by the back of his jacket and yanked him back. “Why’s your gun cold? You should be shooting,” he snapped. Ludwig nodded, the movement mechanical as the swift click when he undid the safety. Thoughtless, entirely numb, Ludwig braced his elbows on the thawing earth and aimed at over the hillside towards the camp of Soviet soldiers on the other side. He shot at the ground. 

Gunshots rattled his eardrums and shook up his bones. He wanted to close his eyes until he couldn’t see the blood and cover his ears until he couldn’t hear the guns. He noticed the flash of a gun barrel facing him and he threw himself down on the ground, jolting the air out of his lungs. 

Feliciano was crouched beside him, clutching his gun with white fingers and mumbling under his breath. Shells now, and Ludwig balked. Did the Russians even _have_ shells? But they whistled and the exploded on the ground beside him, tore up the earth and it cascaded back down on the yellow soldiers. 

Ludwig froze, covering the back of his neck and gritting his teeth, reappearing over the hill and shooting at the ground again. He bit his lip now, sunk his teeth in so hard he bled. He had never done that before. 

He heard the order to retreat gradually rising among the people surrounding him. He couldn’t believe it. They were under fire, and if they ran across that wide open plain they would be killed for sure. His heart hammered so hard he could barely draw breath, but he stood up and he ran like hell across that endless plain, towards the horizon where the sun was coming up. Feliciano ran beside him. 

Ludwig knew that this was technically a bad thing, that they were probably one of the few losses Operation Barbarossa would’ve sustained, but he didn’t know if he had been so explosive with joy in his life. 

Ludwig yelled suddenly. He knew it immediately, the pain, then the numbness that was somehow hot. He’d been shot. The shot of adrenaline should have pushed him to go faster, but he slowed as his brain fought to assess the damage. 

“Don’t stop!” One of them men beside him yelled as he stumbled. Feliciano grabbed Ludwig’s wrist and tugged, pulling him along as they kept fleeing. The numbness was branching out of the wound, down his arm to his elbow, into his forearm. Would he lose feeling in his fingers? 

Again he wanted to shut his eyes, wanted to cry, wanted to beg for his mother and someone to put their arms around him and promise him that none of this was real and that it would be over soon. His nerves were deadened, his heart was aching from the strain of running and running and _running_ , but he couldn’t stop. 

“Keep going, keep going! We’re almost there!” Feliciano said in between pants. Ludwig nodded and kept running, his gun slamming him in the back. He had no idea how far they ran. Maybe the did run all the way to the horizon, to that spot where the sun was coming up. 

Seconds after that had stopped, Ludwig collapsed on the ground, clutching his arm. Feliciano crouched down beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder. 

“Are you okay?” Feliciano asked. Ludwig shook his head. Feliciano shied back as another soldier grabbed him by his good arm and brought him upright. He marched him over to the huddle of military vehicles and makeshift hospitals in the tents. 

“This boy’s wounded. Shot in the arm,” he said. Ludwig straightened up, but he swayed on the spot from blood loss and fading adrenaline.

“What’s your name?” the doctor asked him. Ludwig’s eyes fluttered, and he tried to speak but he couldn’t. He stumbled. The world was becoming harder and harder to hold on to, and at first he fought to stay conscious, but he was too sick of fighting. 

The last thing he heard was Feliciano’s voice, soft, anxious. “His name’s Ludwig…” 

**_____________**

Ludwig’s consciousness came back to him slowly. He felt it must have been a long time he fought with his exhausted brain to wake up, and open his eyes, see what damage had been done to his arm. It hurt like sore muscles and was stiff when he tried to move it. He heard arguing nearby and someone humming, felt the cold wind over his face. 

He opened his eyes. He was lying on the ground outside one of the tents on an uncomfortable cot, and his jacket was slung over his torso in place of a blanket. He pressed his face into the cot, glad for the feeling of something softer than brittle grass and dirt. He longed for his bed at home, the soft pillows, the heavy quilts that kept out the cold. 

There were tree branches reaching out over the sky above him. When Ludwig sat up he say Feliciano sitting against it with his knees to his chest, forearms on his knees. 

“How do you feel?” he asked. Ludwig slowly sat up, gradually realizing he was still wearing his jacket and that the one slung over him was too small to be his. “You were shivering. I figured you’d need it more than me. I can get up and walk around to warm up,” Feliciano said with something like cheerfulness. Ludwig nodded and passed it back. 

“It hurts a little, but I’m alright,” Ludwig said. 

“Good,” Feliciano said, slinging his jacket back over his shoulders. “I got worried when you passed out. I’ve never seen anyone pass out before. You went all limp, it was so scary. I’m glad your okay.” 

Ludwig gave a muttered thank you and took of his coat to examine his bandage. It didn’t seem bad. He hadn’t bled through it, in any case. 

Feliciano told him only seven soldiers had escaped unharmed. The others were wounded or had died in the tents, and a few had been taken in an ambulance in the afternoon.

“They’re talking about what to do next,” Feliciano said, picking at the grass. “I think they want to station us in Austria. It would be close to Italy, if nothing else,” Feliciano added, and Ludwig saw a bit of hope flicker in his expression. 

“Yeah,” Ludwig said. He didn’t want to talk about the stations or the war at all. “I’ve never been to Italy. It is as beautiful there as they say?” 

“Oh, yes,” Feliciano said, smiling at the branches above them. “It’s the most beautiful place in the world, especially the little towns in the South in the summer… It’s warm, and you can smell the sea and the heat everywhere you go, and citrus, too. And it’s… kinder, too, much kinder than all these places.” He hugged his knees to his chest. 

“The people?” Ludwig asked. Feliciano shook his head.

“No. I can’t explain it, it’s just… just a feeling.” He closed his eyes and smiled, but then he sighed. “I miss home,” he murmured. “I miss reading in the sun and singing and painting in my studio.” Feliciano picked at his sleeves, and he didn’t speak for a few moments. “Do you miss home too? Even if its your army?” 

“Of course I miss my home. I was conscripted, I don’t want this. I never wanted this. I would rather have shot myself then let Hitler rob me of my life, of my morals, of…” _My innocence. My belief in goodness. My family. My future._ Ludwig shut his mouth and stared up at the branches above them. 

“Have hope, Ludwig. That’s all we can do, just hope.” 

“I don’t want to hope. I want to _do something_.” Ludwig insisted, his fingers gripping his wounded arm. “But what can I possible do?” He glanced at Feliciano, and underneath the sheltering branches of a wizened tree, he began to think of exactly what he could do. 


	3. Chapter 3

Feliciano had to remind himself to breathe as he gripped his gun in his trembling hands, filling his lungs with the icy shock of night. He had never shot anyone, despite his infantry post. But he had to now, for a chance to go home and never have to see the horrors of the fronts anymore, hear the yells of dying men or the whistle of shells, the drone of airplanes. He gripped tighter to his gun.

He was facing Ludwig, who was lying on his side his gun against his chest as he lay on the cold cot. The hard ground pressed to his ribs through the uneven mattress, but he didn’t feel it. All he felt was his pulse and the unnatural quiet of a storm’s eye. 

There were three men beneath the leafless, wizened tree, all asleep, their weapons in reach but not in hand. Feliciano swallowed and shifted to look over Ludwig’s shoulder at the Colonel Achenbach, watching the sky imperiously while someone spoke to him, low and fast. He was the one Feliciano was to draw a beat on as soon as Ludwig nodded. 

Feliciano’s heart tumbled in his chest, his blood clumsy in his veins as he steadied his hand on the trigger. He kept staring at the man beside the colonel, never looking away, so he didn’t notice when one of the men beneath the tree sat up and sighed, unable to sleep in the cold. 

The seconds trailed on and Feliciano waited, watching, until Ludwig nodded slowly. Feliciano squeezed his eyes shut for the quickest moment he could. There was no margin of error; the minute the shots started, the men beneath the tree would wake up and reach for their guns. It comforted him some that Ludwig had assured him their position would allow for a quick turnaround. 

Feliciano’s finger slipped, jittering helplessly on the trigger, but he raised his gun anyway and aimed. 

Ludwig shot, and Feliciano’s stumbling finger followed suit. The man beside Achenbach stumbled and clutched at his head, and Ludwig swung himself around to face the tree to the other two men. Feliciano’s body locked up as he watched the colonel raise a pistol, yelling something he couldn’t understand. Feliciano fumbled to grab Ludwig’s arm as Achenbach started towards them, but Ludwig shook him off, focused on the men beneath the tree. In the panic of the moment, he didn’t notice one of them was gone. 

There was one shot, but a second did not follow, because then Achenbach grabbed Ludwig by his collar and dragged him upright. He caught Ludwig around the neck, choking him with the inside of his arm. Ludwig clawed at the leather of his jacket and coughed. He squirmed and wrestled against him, trying to knock the pistol from his hand. He really did look like a frightened animal with the whites of their eyes showing, kicking, scratching. 

Feliciano grabbed his rifle to aim at Achenbach, but then the leaves crunched behind him and the turned around. He pulled the trigger, collapsing at the recoil in his weak, panicked state. His attacker dropped to the ground, clutching his chest, raising a hand as if in surrender. Feliciano got to his feet and turned back at Achenbach. 

Ludwig’s face was getting red and he was starting to slump. Feliciano stared. He could see it in Ludwig’s expression, see him begging Feliciano to do something, _anything_. Achenbach pointed his pistol at Feliciano, seeming to be torn between devoting his strength to strangling Ludwig or shooting Feliciano first. He seemed to decide Ludwig no longer posed much of a threat, his windpipe crushed by his arm, fingers still tearing the fabric of his coat. 

Feliciano yelped and ducked, then shot again. He missed, but Achenbach had to move away to avoid being hit. Ludwig reached up and twisted his wrist, and he dropped the pistol. Feliciano grabbed it without a thought, wishing he wasn’t such a terrible shot as he pointed it at Achenbach’s chest, over his heart. But how could he miss now? He squeezed the trigger and thanked God the bullet hit him right in the neck. He couldn’t possibly survive. 

Ludwig dropped to his knees as he was let go, gasping for air. 

“Now what?” Feliciano cried. Ludwig was still panting, and he looked around for a moment. They had hiked a ways from the makeshift hospital, but it was possible they had still heard the shots. They needed to go now. But where would they go? And what would they do, without money, in their Wehrmacht uniforms? 

Ludwig reached for the colonel and fished through his coat pockets, tossing keys and a little bottle of whiskey aside, as well as a half-empty pack of cigarettes, finally locating a small bundle of Russian money. He stuffed it in his own pocket and kept digging for anything else. Feliciano watched him, raising his shaking fingers to his face. He felt his throat close up as he touched his cheek; he thought he had touched blood, but then he realized it was tears. 

Satisfied with his spoils, Ludwig beckoned Feliciano and they bolted from the little camp, having no idea if there was any safety waiting for them. They didn’t stop running until they found the edge of a lonesome road, and they both leaned on their knees, panting, staring down either side and hoping for a glimpse of city lights. 

“I’m sorry I’m such a terrible shot,” Feliciano gasped, hiding his face n his hands. “I’m so sorry, I got so scared, and… and you could’ve died…” His voice was muffled through his fingers and broken up by his panting. 

“You don’t owe me any apologies,” Ludwig said. “I’m the one that owes you an apology, and a thank you, too, for what you just did.” It was then the realization tapped him that he had just killed two men, men who had families and probably wanted to go home, to taste sugar again, to drink with their friends. 

But then he remembered the insignia pinned on their uniforms, and what it stood for, that they had chosen to fight for their fatherland and die for it. 

“What do we do now?” Feliciano asked. 

“I get home to Germany, and you go back to Italy,” Ludwig said, finally standing up. 

“But won’t they find us?” Feliciano insisted.

“We just escaped a battlefront, Feliciano. Everyone will expect we were shot like the others or taken as POWs. We left no witnesses.” Feliciano nodded, but he was unconvinced. And now that he thought about it, hadn’t there been three men beneath that tree, not two? 

“But I do need to figure out where we are,” Ludwig said. “We weren’t close to being outside Moscow, which is the only major city we could’ve been near at this point. There have to be some rural villages around here, I suppose we could take shelter there for the time being.” 

“How?” Feliciano murmured.

“Follow the road,” Ludwig said. The night began to fade as they walked. Feliciano fished in his pocket, pulling a rosary from his pocket and tracing the cross that hung from it, a Roman cross, not an iron one Ludwig had becoming so sickeningly familiar with. 

“My brother’s friend Antonio gave it to me before I joined the war,” Feliciano murmured. “I said thank you but told him I wasn’t all that religious and didn’t pray much. He told me I would.” Feliciano sighed. “That was very brave of you, by the way. I would never have tried something like that,” he said. “We almost died, though.” 

“Heh,” Ludwig said darkly. “Better dead than serving for the Nazis. But I…” he dropped his eyes. It felt too personal of information to share, about promising his brother that he wouldn’t die and he would come home. He felt childish about it; of course he would’ve promised not to die. “I suppose you’ll be able to thank Antonio in person soon.” 

“I don’t know how I’ll get back to Italy. Maybe I could take a plane. I’ve always wanted to fly,” Feliciano said. “Can you imagine what it’s like, being that high up in the sky?” Ludwig was shocked by his smile, so optimistic, full of unabashed wonder. “My papa’s been in an airplane. He says they go all the way above the clouds, and you’re floating through endless sky. He said he watched the sunset from it and the colors were so beautiful he can’t even describe them. He said it looked like something I would paint.” A little hum of pride went into his expression with the words. 

“You paint?” Ludwig asked. 

“I do,” Feliciano said. “It’s my favorite thing in the whole world. My papa does too. He shares his studio with me, up in the attic. It never felt like an attic, though, because there are big windows and it’s always sunny and colorful because of all the paintings up on the easels.” 

Ludwig felt he corners of his mouth twitch as he pictured such a place, always filled with sun and color, feeling an odd ache in his chest for something he had never even had. After the endless weeks of monotone skies and burgundy streaked on white, he found himself missing sun and color more every moment. 

“There’s always music in our house,” Feliciano went on. “Mama sings and Lovi does too even though he never lets anyone hear him. He plays the violin, though, and when Antonio visited he would play his guitar. 

“That sounds wonderful,” Ludwig said. He started thinking back to Roderich’s piano music, to the slow sweet songs he played in the evenings when Ludwig sat out on the porch studying in the warm dusk when it smelled like grass and warm wood. 

“What’s your home like, Ludwig?” he asked. 

“My house is by the woods. My brother and I went exploring there all the time, and he would show me edible plants but told me that almost all of them have a poisonous lookalike and he didn’t want to kill me, so even if he told me it was safe, I probably shouldn’t eat it. There were lots of other people my age in the village we used to play football with on the field behind our house. Gilbert would commentate like we were in World Cup, and I missed it when he went off to college. Gilbert is my brother,” Ludwig added. 

He missed it suddenly, savagely, just being a teenager, fooling around with his friends. 

Feliciano nodded, then stopped and cried out with joy. 

“Ludwig, Ludwig, look!” He pointed. There was a sign up ahead and further down, a cluster of light. Stiff and exhausted as they were, they ran down the road, chasing the lights that winked and promised them the warmth and safety that hadn’t known in far, far too long.


	4. Passed the Watchman

It was sunrise when they finally arrived to the small town, legs aching, exhausted. They stripped off their jackets a half mile away and did their best to rub the dirt from their skin and hair but without water they did little to improve their appearances. Ludwig hoped people might mistake them for some particularly unhygienic but hard-working farmers rather than treasonous soldiers. 

They happened upon a grubby little depot-type store and bought themselves some cheap jackets and pants with the colonel’s rubles and Ludwig’s watch. 

Both were too tired to start planning on how they might get out of Russia, so instead they opted to pool the rest of the money on an inexpensive hotel room and some beers. The bar was close-knit, giving it a warm, cozy sort of feel. It smelled of woodsmoke and cold air when its bitterness is softened with heat, and there was a low buzz of conversation and a general feeling of contentment neither of them had felt in months. 

Talking to Feliciano, Ludwig started to feel seventeen again, even though dirt still cake his hair and beneath the jacket grime was rubbed deep into his skin. Feliciano spoke endlessly about his home in Italy. Ludwig found himself asking Feliciano to continue when he took a pause and he even began to smile a bit imagining all the lovely things he spoke about. He even made Ludwig laugh, and his eyes lit up when he did as if he was proud. 

The door opened and closed, the talk swelled like the wind beyond the windows. Lost in conversation, they didn’t notice when it suddenly sucked back and stilled, replaced by a few low murmurs. They didn’t see the man who stumbled up to the bar, a bloody hole in his neck and blood sliding from the corner of his mouth. He was pale, so pale beneath his SS coat, looking much like a drowned man that’s just floated to the surface of a cold sea. 

“What was his name?” Feliciano was asking. His back was to the door, and though he felt the cold he paid no mind to it, even when it opened again and two more Wehrmacht soldiers hurried in after the colonel. “The one who plays the piano?” 

“Roderich,” Ludwig said. “He’s a good friend of my brother’s. He’s a veritable musical genius, but he’s… well…” Ludwig glanced sideways, struggling for polite paraphrasing. “He can be little picky, you know he likes things just so. But he’s like a reincarnation of Mozart.” Feliciano wrinkled his nose.

“Mozart is boring. All baroque classical is,” he said. 

“Fine, then he’s like Beethoven,” Ludwig said. “Is Beethoven better?” 

“Of course! Have you ever listened to Moonlight Sonata?” Feliciano asked, grinning and leaning forward. “No song gets my blood pumping like the third movement of Moonlight Sonata.” Ludwig laughed a little, but it sunk back down to a frown when he realized something about the argument that had been buzzing in the background: beneath the frantic Russian, there was German. Angry German, for that matter. Ludwig sat up straight and turned to look over his shoulder. 

His pulse about went dead and then went far too fast and his tongue got sour with fear. 

There he was, the man Feliciano had shot in the neck. He could barely stand and had to be held up by one of the soldiers beside him as he screamed at the barkeeper, blood and saliva still seeping down his chin. He looked deranged, feral. 

Then Ludwig’s eyes fell on his escorts. A boy about his age and then, the soldier from beneath the tree who had run before either of them noticed. 

Feliciano had now noticed too and he stared, wide-eyed at Ludwig. If they ran, everyone would notice. The soldiers would notice. 

If it had only been the colonel, Ludwig might have risked it; the Soviets despised the Germans, and they would be quicker to stand behind deserters than a crazed SS colonel screaming in a language they didn’t understand. But it wasn’t only him. Ludwig lifted a palm to signal to Feliciano to stay put, and he kept his back turned, listening. 

The boy was insisting the colonel be quiet, and then Ludwig heard him speaking Russian to the barkeeper. He sunk his teeth hard into his lip, clenching his hands into fists to stop his hands from shaking so badly. 

“This man says he knows nothing about German soldiers,” he started, switching back to German to translate for Achenbach. “He says there have been none before us. Maybe you were mistaken.” Achenbach straightened and swayed on the spot as he shook his head, insisting he had not. He cursed the boy, one Ziegler, for his idiocy and worked himself up so much he collapsed onto the bar.

“Calm down, Sir, please,” Ziegler begged. “You are not well.” His eyes skimmed over the bar, Ludwig and Feliciano and the women next to them, then towards the window where two of the militias cars sat idle. 

Ludwig looked up at Feliciano. There had no choice, they had to act now. Either they risked hiding or they were pointed out to Ziegler and arrested to be dragged into the unforgiving arms of the Gestapo.

“Feliciano,” Ludwig kept his voice low. Before he could go on, Feliciano gestured to a small opening near them, beside the bar. No one was paying them any attention now, but surely one of the soldiers would notice if they slipped off their chairs? Maybe they wouldn’t, but Ludwig still didn’t now if he wanted to gamble. For now it seemed they couldn’t hide without being seen, but staying put was equally as out of the question. There had to be another way out, something he hadn’t thought of…

“I saw them through the window. They shot my men, they’re traitors, filthy, twisted traitors!” 

“Can you describe them?” Ziegler asked, turning to the officer who had been beneath the tree.

“Ludwig Beilschmidt is German. He’s tall, built, blond hair and blue eyes. He got shot in the arm. Bicep, if I remember. Then Feliciano Vargas, he’s Italian, looks sort of twelve, brown hair and brown eyes,” he said, attempting to support Achenbach and get him towards the doors. “I’m getting him to a doctor. I’ll send in a few others to help you search,” he added. Ziegler nodded. 

Ludwig tried to swallow. He couldn’t. Feliciano had closed his eyes and he was clutching the cross under the table so hard it cut into his skin. Their backs were turned for a second, perhaps two, and Ludwig pointed to the little spot beside the bar and mouthed _go!_

They slipped behind the bar, not wanting the barkeeper to notice them either. The women beside them had, and all Ludwig could do was pray they would stay quiet. Ludwig crouched down beside Feliciano, reaching into his coat for Achenbach’s pistol. Feliciano had his hand over his mouth and there were tear tracks down his face. 

Every breath they took was too loud. If any of the soldiers so much as glanced over the back of the bar, it was over. Everything was for nothing. 

A shadow passed under one of the warm lamps hanging over the bar, and Ludwig waited, sure they had been seen. And then there it was, a call for Ziegler, and a bullet buried itself into the floor in the space between Ludwig’s fingers. 

He grabbed his pistol and shot behind him, grabbing Feliciano. He swung around and shot again, just for the man’s arm, not to kill. He didn’t shoot to miss. 

They sprinted back into the kitchen, where it smelled like bread and warm sugar and honey, too. A loaf was cooling on the window, steam still rising from the crust. Ludwig ran for the window and swung himself out of it. Feliciano halted and stared at the ground. It wasn’t a far drop, but it was high enough to break an ankle if he wasn’t careful. 

“Come on, Feliciano!” Ludwig insisted, reaching up. “I’ll catch you!” Feliciano closed his eyes just as the door banged open behind him. He flung himself towards the street, his whole body feeling as if it had been weighted with lead. 

Ludwig caught him as he had promised and set him down on the street. They turned Feliciano tore after Ludwig, who was racing for the cars. 

“Can you _drive_?” Feliciano yelped as Ludwig leapt into the driver’s side. By some miracle, some glorious miracle he would remember forever, the keys were on the seat. Feliciano covered his face with his hands, yelping when Ludwig turned the car hard and they sped out of the cluttered town on road that could lead anywhere. 

No one followed. The officer had taken the other car. 

Were they on the run now? Would Ludwig have to crop his hair and dye it and live as an isolated sheep herder in Iceland until the war ended? 

“Yes, I can drive,” Ludwig said nearly a half hour later. He checked the gas. It would get them to the outskirts of the town, but no further. 

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Feliciano murmured, burying the back of his head against the seat. “I want to go home,” he whined, closing his eyes. Ludwig cast his eyes down to the wheel. He felt a sudden rush to put a hand on Feliciano’s arm and say something to him that might make him feel a little better. 

But he had never been good with that, so he kept his hands on the wheel and continued on down the open road. 


	5. Saddest City Lane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation Notes:  
> Wer ist da? - Who's there?  
> Sehr gut - Very good

Ludwig drove the car off the road and parked it in the middle of a frozen field which they trudged across to a pint-sized hotel on the outskirts of the town. Ludwig didn’t know Russian and fumbled his way through asking for a room for himself and Feliciano, trying not to seem outwardly suspicious despite the dried blood and mud on him. 

They had just enough for a small room with a lumpy bed in a room that smelled like mildew and rough blankets. Still, it was comfortable and dry, and that was plenty.

Feliciano went to shower and Ludwig collapsed on the uneven mattress, running his hands over his face. Getting out of Russia had been hard enough, but now at least three members of the SS knew their faces and names and what they had done. Perhaps the Gestapo would chose to let them go and cover it all up, but even if they did, they’d likely hunt them both down. 

The water in the shower was freezing it smelled like copper. It burned and stung as he scraped the caked blood, sweat, and dirt off himself. His nails brought blood to the surface, leaving him looking rubbed raw when he climbed out and shivered, drying his hair off. It felt light now that it was free of gore and mud. He wanted to comb it out but had no brush, so he forced his fingers through the unforgiving tangles and then dressed to meet Feliciano in the main room. 

Feliciano was under the blankets already, facing the window. Ludwig shut the curtains and tucked the pistol beneath his blanket before he laid down, nuzzling his face into the pillows and closing his eyes, pulling the blanket up to his chin. He tried to give Feliciano space but it was difficult on the narrow bed, though Ludwig supposed having him close would keep him warmer. 

He was so, so tired. His eyelids got heavy and his thoughts turned to a confused muddle, but he jolted to attention when Feliciano screamed. 

Ludwig grabbed the pistol. 

“Feliciano!” he yelled. Feliciano was sitting up and holding his face in his hands, digging his nails into his skin. Ludwig set the pistol down on the coverlet. “Feliciano, what…?” Feliciano looked up, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open like he was trying to breathe but had forgotten how. 

“I… I killed him… I shot a man, I killed someone…” Ludwig felt guilt pull at his ribcage; he was the one Feliciano had done it for. “I shot him, I shot him, I _killed_ him…” Feliciano stared at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths that chafed his throat. 

Ludwig didn’t know what to do. That night on the front when he had been yelled at to fire, and he had watched someone fall to the ground and not get up again because of his gun, what had he wanted to hear? He had cried for hours, cried for the first time the entire war in that lonesome, loathsome pit of dirt, but his screams were drowned by gunshots and yelling. 

Perhaps that was all he wanted, just to scream until his vocal cords rasped and his body only shook but couldn’t shed another tear. What would he possibly have been able to process when his eyes had been unseeing and nothing else mattered than the fact he was a murderer? 

Forgiveness, maybe that was all he had wanted. Someone to hold him, to forgive him when he could never imagine forgiving himself. 

Ludwig reached out a hand and touched Feliciano’s shoulder, unsure how he might react. Feliciano raised his hand and held onto Ludwig’s, crumpling against his shoulder and sobbing. Ludwig was still for several moments, then put an arm around Feliciano’s shoulders and rocked back and forth very slowly, rubbing Feliciano’s arm. It felt awkward, but Feliciano stopped shaking and relaxed some.

“Just breathe,” Ludwig said, struggling to keep his voice calm. “You need to breathe. It’ll pass, I promise, it will pass.” Feliciano nodded and laid back down. Tears spilled out from his closed lids and down over his temple. He shuddered. 

“Stay here, oh God, _please_ stay here…” He reached out for Ludwig’s hand, curled on the coverlet, and closed his hand over it, squeezing so hard Ludwig felt a pulse in his fingers. He let go only a half second later, though, leaping up and bolting to the bathroom. Ludwig winced as he heard Feliciano vomit and let out another series of heaving sobs. 

Ludwig waited several minutes before walking into the drafty bathroom. He flicked the light on to see Feliciano curled on the cold, dirty tiles, clutching his knees to his chest and crying so hysterically it sounded painful. He didn’t know what to say, or what to do, so he sat on the floor beside Feliciano until the evening lapsed into early night. 

“What are we going to do?” Feliciano whispered to his knees, clutching at the arms of his shirt. 

“We need to sleep. We’ve had a long day,” Ludwig said. Feliciano shook his head. Ludwig sighed. “Come here, Feliciano,” he said, standing up and tugging on his arm, pulling him upright a little roughly. 

Feliciano followed him back to the bed, stumbling slightly. Ludwig laid down beside him and turned the light off. 

“We’re going to go home,” he whispered to the darkness. “Both of us. I don’t know how, but we are.” He closed his eyes. “Goodnight, Feliciano,” he murmured against the pillow.

“Goodnight,” Feliciano responded, pulling his hands against his chest. He didn’t want to close his eyes, because everytime he did everything replayed endlessly over and over in his head. 

But he did feel a little safer knowing Ludwig was lying beside him, and he was exhausted, so he closed his eyes and let himself relax. 

  
  


**_____________**

What a pleasure it was to lay in the rising sun in sleep-tangled blankets and sheets, heavy and unaware of the world, sleepy, warm. Ludwig didn’t want to pull himself back into reality, instead wanted to stay in this limbo for the rest of time and long after. 

When he finally forced himself to sit up he first glanced over at Feliciano. He was asleep, cuddling his own pillow to his chest with his mouth open and hair in stringy waves around his ears and across his forehead. Ludwig looked away, feeling rather perverse watching him sleep, and looked at the ceiling, considering their next move. 

They didn’t have enough money for another night at the hotel. Could he barter? What were their other options? Maybe Feliciano could get in touch with his old contacts from when he fought with the Allies, or… Well, there was no “or” at the moment. 

Then he heard it. A knock on the door, soft, but rapid. Ludwig grabbed the pistol and swung himself up, jostling Feliciano, who stirred. 

“ _Wer ist da_? _”_ Ludwig yelled, pointing the gun at the door. 

“Keep your voice down, you stupid boy!” It was a woman’s voice. It wasn’t the soldiers. “My name is Natalia Braginsky. Open the door. I’m unarmed, and I expect you aren’t so don’t shoot me.” Ludwig put the safety back on but kept his hand on it as he walked to the door and opened it. He recognized the two women who stood in the dingy hall from the nightmarish bar yesterday. 

“Let us in.” Ludwig let them pass. “You are the two the Colonel was looking for yesterday, weren’t you?” she asked, leaning on the wall. “You got a light?” she added, drawing a box of cigarettes from her coat. Feliciano nodded and reached in his pocket, tossing Lovino’s lighter to her. Natalia caught it and lit her cigarette, throwing the lighter back on the bed and burying her free hand in her coat. 

“Want one?” she asked. Cigarettes were like gold out on the war front. Ludwig wondered how she had a nearly full carton. Ludwig politely refused. They burned his throat. Feliciano took one and stood by the window to smoke, pushing it open a fraction. Natalia watched as he lit his cigarette and exhaled shakily. 

“Are you here to help us?” he asked. The woman beside her nodded. 

“Seems like it,” Natalia said. “See, it’s obvious you two really got yourselves into trouble,” she began, taking a drag on her cigarette, “and my idiot sister wants to help you.” 

The woman beside her smiled. “I’m Katyusha,” she said. “I understand it if you’re hesitant to accept help from us, but if you wanted you could come stay with me at my farm in the Ukraine until you can get home. Germany, yes?” Ludwig nodded.

“You would put yourself in danger hiding us,” Ludwig said. Natalia blew smoke at his face and he wrinkled his nose.

“ _Sehr gut_ , German boy,” she said. 

“I understand the dangers,” Katyusha said.

“How long would we stay? Until the war ends?” Feliciano asked. He had an arm across his chest, the other holding his cigarette to his lips. There was a line between his brows and his hair was still wrecked from sleeping on it, making him look oven more lost and helpless. 

“Suppose you would have to. Either you wait out the war or the Gestapo takes a few fingers to add to their trophy collection.” Katyusha gave her sister a sideways look. 

“I want to help,” Katyusha said. 

“Help Nazis,” Natalia hissed, tapping ashes into the carpet. “One of those bastards put a bullet in our brother’s brain, did you forget that?” Natalia asked. “Speaking of, why did you shoot them? Nazis killing other Nazis, that doesn’t happen.”

“I’m not a Nazi,” Ludwig said through his teeth. 

“Really? Then what were you doing out on the front line, hmm? And it doesn’t matter if you were just in Wehrmacht. All you Germans are grotty bastards. You’re so lucky you chose not to parade into town in your fancy uniforms.” It was all Ludwig could do not to snap at her. 

“I didn’t volunteer,” he said. “I was conscripted.” Ludwig stared at Natalia, who stared back. Neither of them spoke. Feliciano was staring out the window with the cigarette still between his lips, and silence spread through the stagnant air. When it seemed truly no one had anything left to say, Natalia spoke. 

“Make up your minds. Are you coming or not?”


	6. From Another Street

Roderich shook his head and scribbled something in his music, readjusting his fingers on the keys and playing a soft series of chords, this time with a tense suspension because he had made the last note sharp. He shook his head again and sighed, scrubbing his eraser on the staff and staring at it. 

Elizabeta put a hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?” she asked. 

“It doesn’t sound right,” he spat, pulling the music back onto his lap. Elizabeta sighed but didn’t argue with him, instead set a cup of coffee down on the table beside the piano and gave the other to Gilbert. She sat on the couch and smoothed her skirt, looking down at the quiet lane peppered with snow. Roderich started testing out different chords again, and it made the whole scene seem disjointed, somehow.

“Did Ludwig ever write you back?” Elizabeta asked. Gilbert shook his head. “Hm,” Elizabeta stared at her coffee. “I hope he’s safe,” she said, glancing up at Aldrich. He paid her no mind and kept reading. If people had thought he had been quiet before, his silence now was staggering. 

Roderich was writing again. Even Gilbert had nothing to say. It was too quiet. Elizabeta got up and turned the radio on and sat in the armchair beside it. 

Gilbert kept staring out the window. The window wells were filled with snow and the glass was fogging over with his breath, not that there was anything to see with the world brushed over with snow. The sky was clear cut with stars, and there was a distant sugary glow from the town at the bottom of the hill where the Beildschmidt’s house sat, encrusted in falling snow. 

_ It should have been me.  _ Gilbert exhaled a shaky sigh.  _ If it weren’t for my two million health problems, it  _ would  _ have been me. I’m so sorry, Luddy…  _ He wiped the fog off the glass with his sleeve, trying to enjoy the pretty night if nothing else, and tangy scent of pine and the bite of cold. Then he stiffened and sat up, squinting through the dark as hard as he could. 

There was a car trundling up the low hill, the paths of its headlights speckled with the falling snow. 

“Roderich,” Gilbert hissed. “Roderich, Roderich, go downstairs, you’ve got to go downstairs.” Gilbert struggled upright and grabbed his arm, yanking him back from the piano bench. 

“What?” he spluttered.

“There’s a car, a car coming up the road, and I… I don’t know, it might be Gestapo—” 

“It’s Christmas!” Elizabeta said. 

“Do you want to risk it?” Gilbert snapped. Elizabeta glared at him.

“You know I don’t, I—” 

“It’s not coming to our house,” Aldrich said, watching it continue on down the road. “It’s going to the neighbor’s. I think it’s their aunt from Einbeck.” Roderich slumped on the piano bench and Elizabeta sat down beside him, taking his hands in hers. 

“They don’t have me registered,” Roderich whispered. 

“I know, but…” Elizabeta sighed and pressed her forehead to his chest. He whispered something to her and squeezed her hands. “We’re playing a dangerous game, not bothering to hide you,” she insisted. “We’ve gambled a lot on the fact that you lived an isolated life, but they have access to hospital records, and if someone says something…” she went on, glancing at Gilbert or Aldrich for support. 

“She’s right,” Gilbert murmured. 

“Even  _ Gilbert  _ agrees with me,” Elizabeta insisted. Roderich put his hands back on the keys and started playing again, and neither of them said anything else.

“We’ve all been robbed of Gilbert’s horrific caroling,” he said. “Gilbert, give me a song. I’ll play it, and you can shriek along to the tune. I’ll try to play it a little off-key for you too so it will match and be easier on our ears. Then again, playing out of tune might not be quiet enough and we might have to untune the piano, a painful prospect but necessary evil.” 

Gilbert stood beside the piano and cleared his throat loudly to begin singing. It was true, he was awful, and it didn’t improve much when Elizabeta joined him. Roderich tried to carry the songs but eventually realized this was a battle he would never come out victorious and started playing with a revolting style to match his duet. Awful as it was, there was something endearing about slapdash music when it was broken up by laughing and grins at one another. 

The Beilschmidt’s living room became a warm, separate reality from the cold December outside, lit with sweet warmth and smelling of fresh pine and woodsmoke and the stollen in the oven. 

“Alright, I’ve had enough,” Roderich announced after an upsetting rendition of  _ Silent Night _ . “You’re going to kill my intonation and then I’ll never write a piece of music again.” Roderich started playing again, and this time it was delicate like the snow that still fell outside, glittering in the cold where it settled on the frozen earth.

“That’s pretty,” Elizabeta said, sitting beside him.

“It’s an Israeli love song,” Roderich said. “My father used to play it for my mother sometimes the night before Hanukkah started. I’m not sure why, there must have been some reason but I never asked,” Roderich said. “I wrote it as a duet for them. I was going to give it to them for Hanukkah this year,” his fingers stilled on the keys and music faded out. 

“Could I play it with you?” Elizabeta asked. Roderich gave a pleased smile and nodded, putting his hands over hers. He taught her the repeating chords a few times, then began to play the melody over top of them. Gilbert sat on the edge of he armchair and watched them play while the snow kept falling outside and the fire rasped warmly in the grate. 

The timer went off in the kitchen and Elizabeta sighed, getting to her feet to get the stollen out of the oven. Roderich finished the rest of the song himself. It sounded somber with only him playing it, less lively. 

“Ludwig likes that song,” Roderich muttered, playing the first few notes again and then setting his hands in his lap. Gilbert looked up. “Your family was visiting when I was tweaking it, and he kept asking me to play it again.” 

“I wish he was home,” Gilbert whispered, not trusting his voice not to crack. Roderich didn’t speak, just put his hands back to the keys and started playing again. 

**_____________**

Lovino woke to a dreary, drizzly Christmas morning. The weather was a sad, spitting mess with a wind that rattled the windows in their frames with a distinct apathy. Lovino rolled over in bed to face Antonio, who was still asleep, the blanket drawn up to his nose. He got cold so easily and always retracted into the blankets, drawing his knees to his chest and curling up close to Lovino so he wouldn’t get chilly. Lovino rolled back over, watching the rain on the glass.

Antonio rustled in the blankets behind him, snaking a hand underneath Lovino’s arm and splaying out over his chest. He kissed Lovino on the shoulder and then lay against it, sighing.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Antonio murmured. Lovino reached up and took his hand. 

“Good morning,” he whispered. He held on harder to Antonio’s hand and closed his eyes, kissing the tips of his fingers. 

“Are you alright?” Antonio murmured. 

“No,” Lovino said. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“My brother’s still in the middle of a fucking war, and he’s MIA, that’s what’s wrong,” Lovino snapped. “Sorry,” he grumbled. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” He had no right to be foul towards Antonio, who was nothing but kind to him, but that didn’t take away the ache of fearing for Feliciano every day, especially because Antonio was part of his problems, no matter how Lovino wished he wasn’t. 

“I’ll think of something,” Antonio whispered. 

“What?” Lovino asked, trying not to sound so bitter. He threaded his fingers through Antonio’s, feeling his lashes flutter a bit as he opened his eyes. 

“Well, I have a friend who knows a man in the French military, who knows a boy from Canada whose brother is an ace in the American army. I know the US isn’t involved in the war just now, but I doubt they’ll stay out for long.” 

“I doubt that’s going to help, but I appreciate it,” Lovino murmured. Antonio sighed. 

“It will. I promise, Lovino,” he murmured, leaning his cheek on Lovino’s shoulder, “if there’s ever a wrong in the world, I will fix it for you.” Antonio planted his hand over Lovino’s heart and leaned up to kiss him. Lovino closed his eyes, willing the feeling to take away the burn under his skin. 


	7. To Explain

_March 1942_

Feliciano had missed waking up with the sun, but he had gotten to every day since the hesitant spring had bloomed. He left the windows in the room he and Ludwig shared flung wide to let in the clean, warm air. It was the simple pleasures Feliciano had missed so much: breeze on your face in the morning, sunny days that seemed endless, loud laughter that made your stomach ache, filling your lungs with a summer day. 

For the first two months Ludwig and Feliciano had stayed in the back of the barn with the old molding tack no one used in case the SS came knocking. They huddled close in the night under blankets dragged from the guest beds, watching the season pass beyond the small window fogged with cobwebs dripped with dust. There were nights when it was too cold and too unforgiving for sleep that they would trade stories about what they would do when the war ended: the people they would hug, the books they’d read, the foods they would finally get to taste again. 

Katyusha did what she could to ease the pain, buying Feliciano art supplies and letting Ludwig help cook dinner on Christmas. Still, Ludwig remained stubborn about his choice of staying in hiding until he felt enough time had passed, and Feliciano trusted him so he stayed with him in that room with rancid air. 

But no one had disturbed Katyusha’s farmhouse and it seemed that perhaps no one was coming for them after all, so they had finally moved in Katyusha’s home, helping out with her chickens, horses, and plucky crops. Feliciano did not mind the work. It gave him purpose and made him feel that this was progress, that things were changing for the better. 

Ludwig had just finished cooling the horses and was splashing water onto his face at the back tap of the barn while Feliciano sat on a hacked-apart stump, drawing the birds drifting in the branches overhead. Ludwig wandered over, catching himself smiling at Feli’s art. 

“You like them?” Feliciano asked. 

“Yes, they’re very impressive. I didn’t realize you were such an artist.” Feliciano beamed. 

“Thank you.” Feliciano said. “Did you write your brother?” He asked. 

“No.” Ludwig said. “I can’t really risk it, can I? After everything that’s happened,” he hung his head. “What if they traced the postage back to her and she was put in danger?” He sat down across from Feliciano in the grass listing in the wind. “It’s alright. I like it here.” He said. “It’s very peaceful.” Ludwig looked at Feliciano’s sketchbook again.

“I like it here too.” Feliciano said. “I like being with you,” he gave one of his simple smiles. Ludwig felt his face itch with blush. 

“I suppose it is nice to finally have a friend.” Ludwig said, ignoring the faltering look that went over Feliciano's face. “But it’s still not…” He trailed off, hanging his head. 

“Do you draw, Ludwig?” Ludwig shook his head. “You should try.” Feliciano said. “It always makes me feel better, maybe it’ll help you too.” Feliciano’s smile was bright as untarnished gold. He passed his sketchbook to Ludwig, turning to a clean page. Ludwig didn’t move, muttering about not knowing what to draw. “Hmm,” Feliciano said. “Well, my papà told me you should never force yourself to draw something, because that won’t make it fun. So… draw something that makes you happy. What makes you happy, Ludwig?” Feliciano asked. 

Ludwig frowned at the blank paper, Feliciano’s half-grinded down eraser at the top corner. It was slightly depressing that he actually had to think pretty hard about what made him happy, dig through old memories. “In the fall, Mutti used to make this amazing apple cake from the apples in our orchard.” Ludwig said, tracing sketchy, haphazard lines across the paper. “She would dry the apples first though, because Gilbert and I hated hot fruit and always picked it off and just ate the cake, and she wanted us to get some nutrition.

“Autumn was my favorite season because of the apples and because I was always with my family. Vati brought out his cider press and we spent the whole day making it. We sold it down at the market and drank it with his cinnamon-sugar donuts.” He added, outlining an autumn leaf beside the cake. 

“That sounds like so much fun… I’ve never made cider before,” Feliciano said, smiling and resting his chin in his hands. “What else makes you happy?” 

“Football, and Roderich’s piano music,” Ludwig said, scribbling the words beside his half-drawn cake and leaf. “Canoeing and books and dogs, especially German Shepards, and…” he looked up at Feliciano, still smiling, and he felt his heart flutter a little. 

“And?” Feliciano asked. Ludwig felt a soft brush of desire to say the words _and you_ , which was true, wasn’t it? But he didn’t want to say it, so he just shrugged and started drawing what he’d written down. “You’re not a bad artist, Ludwig, did you draw back home?” 

Ludwig nodded. “Sometimes, with Mutti, but not much after she died.” 

“I’m sorry,” Feliciano whispered. His voice was so sincere, like he really truly knew the pain. Ludwig wished more people could have the sort of empathy Feliciano did. 

“My art skills are much better when I can look at the actual thing or a photograph, though.” He said. 

“Why don’t you draw me?” Feliciano asked. “I don’t want to stop you from displaying your true skills.” Ludwig tensed. 

“I don’t think I’m very good at people.” He said. 

“Perfect, so now’s a great time to learn.” Feliciano said. Ludwig sighed as Feliciano sat upright, looking at him with his same gentle expression that Ludwig found himself doubting his rudimentary art skills could ever hope to capture. Ludwig began to sketch in the free space besides his list and above the apple cake, keeping everything neat and in its own place. He felt his cheeks getting hot as he kept looking back at Feliciano, impressed by how still he could sit. Ludwig told himself it was probably because he was concentrating so hard, screwing up his face, but that didn’t explain why the blush crept down to his neck and up to his ears as Feliciano kept on smiling, occasionally offering an encouraging word. 

When Ludwig had finished his rough sketch he showed it to Feliciano. “It’s good,” Feliciano said. 

“But?” Ludwig asked, meeting his eyes. 

“But you should draw a background.” Feliciano said, grinning. Ludwig shook his head. “It’s not as hard as you think!” Feliciano insisted, scooting to sit beside him in the grass. Ludwig doubted that. “Here, let me show you,” Feliciano gently brushed Ludwig’s hand. Ludwig felt the flush rise again before realizing that Feliciano was trying to take the pencil, and he hastily handed it over. “It’s just about tricking the eyes.” Feliciano continued, glancing at the spot where he had just sat and beginning to sketch out the wall of the barn they had once been exiled to. “Nice of you to put me on your page of things that make you happy.” Feliciano said as he continued sketching the grass. 

“Oh, I-I…” Ludwig shook his head slightly. “Well, I suppose you do.” He muttered. 

“You’re so sweet.” Feliciano said, putting his hand on Feliciano’s forearm. Ludwig sat up straight suddenly. Feliciano frowned, taking his hand back and sucking in his stomach.

“It’s March! It’s March sixteenth! Tomorrow’s your birthday, isn’t it?” Ludwig asked, flipping the sketchbook shut and gathering up the eraser and pencil in his hand. Feliciano nodded. “Can I borrow another piece of paper?” Feliciano nodded. “To make you a card.” He added. 

Ludwig got up and started back inside, thinking of asking Katyusha if they could make a cake for Feliciano. There wasn’t much sugar, but cake sweetened with honey sounded good and doable, especially because Katyusha had jars of honey in her cellar. 

What to put on the card, though, he wondered. What did he want to say to Feliciano, above all else? Ludwig went up to their shared attic room and began to write, the sun falling through the windows and warming his skin. 

Katyusha was in Belarus visiting Natalia and wasn’t planning on being back until tomorrow morning, so Ludwig figured he would wait until she got home to do any baking so he had her permission to use the supplies. He smiled slightly to himself; he hadn’t gotten the chance to bake in years. He had baked with Roderich all the time back home. Ludwig felt a heavy pain go through his heart as he thought of Roderich, as though he’d pressed down hard on a bruise. 


	8. Neither Wrong Nor Right

Ludwig heard Feliciano roll over again, sighing. “Why is it so _hot_?” He moaned. “Isn’t it supposed to be cold here? And it’s too bright out, I can’t sleep.” Ludwig sighed, turning to face him. Feliciano was clutching a pillow to his chest and his hair was roughed up from tossing and turning over and over, the sheets twisted slightly around his legs. 

“Neither can I, now.” He said. 

“Ludwig,” Feliciano said. “Let’s go swimming.” 

“Let’s not.” 

“Please? I haven’t gone swimming in a whole year,” he flopped dramatically onto his back. Ludwig muttered something about it being freezing. “Won’t freezing water feel great, though?” Feliciano sat up, swinging his legs over the side of bed and swinging them. “Come on, please? I don’t want to go alone.” Ludwig sighed and sat up, nodding. 

They made their way down to the lake, past the fields and small copse of trees to the the sand still faintly warm beneath their feet, the sun sinking beneath the placid water. Feliciano wandered out onto the dock and dipped his fingers into the sun-simmering water. 

“It’s not that cold,” he announced. Ludwig leaned over the edge of the dock and touched the water himself. It wasn’t mountain spring cold but it wasn’t as if it was _warm._ Still, the sweat sticking his clothes to his body and fever-hot skin told him that even if the water was mountain spring cold, he would’ve jumped in. Feliciano stripped off his shirt, tossing it down on the planks. 

“What are you doing?” Ludwig asked. 

“You didn’t expect me to swim _in my clothes_ , did you? Come on, haven’t you ever gone skinny dipping? We used to do it all the time back home, in the ocean at our summer house.” Ludwig stood still against one of the poles, watching the way the light played along Feliciano’s back and shoulderblades and he pulled off the rest of his clothes. He looked like a chiaroscuro oil painting done with a loving hand and beautiful precision, the spring sun bringing out the bronze and the blond in his auburn hair. “Come on, Ludwig!” Feliciano laughed, leaping lightly off the pier into the water. 

Ludwig winced as the cold water splashed him, but pulled his own clothes off, gripping the side of the dock and easing himself into the water.

He was shocked to find he could stand, but he didn't like the feeling of the bottom of the lake so he swam out towards Feliciano, treading water. The water felt like ice against his bare skin and drew goosebumps to peck his flesh. “ _Fuck_ , it’s freezing,” he said, clutching at his arms. Feliciano had paddled back the dock and was laughing, one arm around the planks as he tread water. It was at that moment Ludwig was very glad the water was this cold. Feliciano let go and swam out to meet him, ducking underwater. It closed over him so the outline of his body beneath it was tinged green and pale, but a web of sunlight played along his back. He came back up. 

“You going to be okay?” He asked in mock sympathy. “Just go under, it’ll get you used to it.” Ludwig shook his head. “I’ll do it with you.” Feliciano said. Ludwig held his breath. “ _Eins_ , _zwei_ , _drei_!” Feliciano held his nose and went under and Ludwig copied him, his scalp stinging as the cold water hit it. He burst through the surface seconds later, shaking his wet hair from his eyes and pushing it back away from his face. 

But Feliciano was right, and the water hurt a little less. They swam as the night got darker, laughing and diving in and out of the water, drifting out towards the center of the lake before returning to the dock when the moon had come up. Ludwig braced his hands on the dock and crouched down to get his clothes, drying himself with his shirt and then pulling his underwear and pants back on, scrubbing the water from his hair with his shirt while Feliciano leapt up lightly beside him. He dressed and they made their way back to Katyusha’s house, the lights still off. 

**_____________**

Feliciano closed his eyes. Ludwig had gone to shower and he could hear the water running. Feliciano was trying to focus on the ceiling, and not the apparent low pulsebeat he felt and the image of Ludwig pulling himself out of the lake, he planes of his body sketchy with night and the reflection of the moon off the water. Feliciano closed his eyes, raising a hand to his mouth and running his tongue along it, his heart beating harder as he slipped his hand down his stomach, past the waistband of his pants, imaging the phantom feeling of Ludwig’s body flush to his and his lips on Feliciano’s, hot but gentle, warm fingers on his cheek… Hands on his bare skin, restless but steady.

He thought of the way Ludwig said his name, the word so simple on his lips but it was _his word_ , his name: _Feliciano_. He said it almost gently, softly, perhaps because the syllables _were_ soft and meant to be said like that. The steadiness of his voice, that genuine interest. And his smile, Feliciano never thought you could love a smile like that, that it could make him happy and warm inside. He didn’t shy away from the feeling, one akin to a heavy duvet on a bitter winter day somewhere it was all snow and unrelenting cold. 

Feliciano leaned back against his pillows, trying to keep his breathing steady, though he doubted Ludwig would hear anything with the water on. He swallowed and buried the crown of his head in the pillows behind him. 

The water turned off. Feliciano bit his lip. He was close enough, he thought, if he just hurried, lifting his hips slightly as though up towards someone who was not there. He exhaled shakily as he came into his hand, breathing out his nose until his heartbeat had started to slow. He wiped his hand off on his underwear and pulled the blanket to his chin, turning towards the window. 

Eventually he wandered to the downstairs bathroom to wash his hands and get a glass of water. When he’d returned upstairs and pushed the door open, the chink of light fell across Ludwig, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. Hurriedly Feliciano shut the door, set the water down, and got into bed. However, it was only several minutes later that Ludwig abandoned the shelter of his bed and settled on the windowsill where he sat darkly outlined by the moon. 

“Ludwig?” Feliciano asked quietly. 

“Oh, you’re awake,” Ludwig muttered. 

“Yes.” Feliciano got up and wandered over, sitting on the windowsill across from him. He was staring down at the ground, his arms around his knees. It was unusual for him to assume any kind of self-soothing gesture. “What’s bothering you?” Feliciano asked. Ludwig frowned at his hands and shook his head slightly. 

“Just lost in my head, I suppose.” Ludwig muttered, biting his thumbnail. “Don’t worry about me. It’s your birthday tomorrow, go ahead and sleep in. I’ll do the morning chores. Also,” Ludwig sighed and passed Feliciano an envelope. “Here’s your card.” Feliciano took it. He felt as if he’d sunken into warm water as he took it. 

“I can’t open it until tomorrow.” Feliciano said. “Alright, _buona notte_ , Ludwig.” Ludwig didn’t move off the sill, and Feliciano didn’t like leaving anyone upset or lonely, so he didn’t move towards his own bed. 

“Italian is a very pretty language.” Ludwig mused, still staring out the window. “Frau Edelstein once told me that Italian was her favorite language to sing in because of all the vowels.” Feliciano nodded, leaning a little closer to Ludwig. The light heightened how thin his face was, the skin beneath his eyes stretched tight and bruised-looking. His eyes were rimmed red and his eyelashes were clinging to another another very faintly. 

“You need to get to bed. You’re exhausted.” Feliciano slipped off the windowsill. “I’ll sing you something.” Ludwig got off the windowsill with painful hesitation, then crumpled on the mattress, too tired and lost in his thoughts to resist. Feliciano reached and drew the blanket up to Ludwig’s neck, softly singing in a voice like the lull of ocean waves. 

“ _Sei bella negli occhi, sei bella nel core, sei tutto un amore, sei nata per me._ ” Feliciano sat back on the corner of Ludwig’s bed, watching him close his eyes, face painted with moonlight so he looked like a Da Vinci sketch in pen and ink. “ _Ah! No, no, non pianger, coraggio, ben mio, quest’ultimo addio ricevi da me._ ” Feliciano repeated the verse softly, slipping off the bed and settling on his own. “ _Non pianger, coraggio, ben mio…_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sei Bella Negli Occhi:  
> Your eyes are so lovely,  
> Your heart is so kind,  
> You are all that I love,  
> You were born for me. 
> 
> Ah no, no, my darling  
> Be brave, do not cry.  
> This is the last goodbye you'll hear from me. 
> 
> (This is a simplified translation + I changed it a little so it’ll sound better in English)


	9. Do Not Call Me Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation Notes:  
> Grazie a Dio! - Thank God!

“Hey, soldier boys!” Ludwig flinched awake, forcing himself upright. He was shocked to see Natalia standing in the doorway, her face strained beyond its normal cool, collected façade. “There’s a lieutenant general downstairs and he knows you’re here and he’s going to kill my sister if you don’t do anything.” Natalia threw two guns down on Feliciano’s bed, the one nearest to the door. He started and skittered back from them, clutching at the edge of his blanket.

“Ivan’s old hunting rifles. You shot your way into this mess, you’re shooting your way out, and word is you’re a pretty good shot.” She said, looking at Ludwig, who paled but swung himself out of bed and reached for one of the guns while Feliciano remained still. 

“I… I can’t…” Feliciano whispered. “Please, don’t make me hurt anyone else…” He recoiled, raising a shaking hand to his forehead, his eyes glinting with forming tears. 

“You’ve already murdered one man, you’re already tainted, may as well kill another.” Natalia said. Ludwig stepped in front of Feliciano’s bed, subtly blocking him from Natalia and grabbing the second gun off the edge. 

“How many men are there?” He asked.

“The lieutenant and nine officers, I think. Only the lieutenant came in but there are cars parked on the road, two, and they look like they could hold five people between them so my guess is that there are at most ten men out there.” 

“How many bullets are in this gun?” Ludwig asked, slipping the pistol into the pocket of his pajama pants. 

“Five in this one, four in the other.” Natalia said. Ludwig nodded. He pressed a finger to his lips and started down the attic stairs, looking down at the floor. _What am I supposed to do?_ Natalia mouthed frantically as they looked down the stairwell into the kitchen, where Ludwig saw the edge of the lieutenant general’s arm. He progressed down the stairs, passing the pistol in his pocket to Natalia, who turned whiter still. They reached the second floor landing, and Ludwig had a clear view of the lieutenant, sitting across from Katyusha, speaking to her in broken-sounding Russian, the anger in his eyes unmistakable. 

_Eins, zwei, drei…_ Ludwig’s fingers slid over the trigger. He felt bile rising in his throat and sweat started making his skin sting. But he had no time to wait, no time to think about what he was about to do. It was his life, or Katyusha’s. 

He pulled the trigger. 

For a moment there was only silence once the gunshot faded. Ludwig’s heart hammered, afraid he had missed; he couldn’t afford to waste one bullet. But then the lieutenant reached and clutched at his chest. Natalia and Ludwig ran down the steps. 

“Hide. Hide in the barn.” Ludwig said. Katyusha leapt up in shock and Natalia grabbed her sister’s arm, bolting with her towards the back screen door which slammed hard behind them. “Don’t come down!” He screamed up at Feliciano. “Don’t come downstairs! I’ll come up and get you when it’s safe!” Any second, any minute now, they’d come running in. The lieutenant groaned and Ludwig’s heart seemed to still in his chest when he saw him reach for his a handgun. Panicked, Ludwig shot at his hand. 

Ludwig grabbed the handgun from underneath the lieutenant’s slack fingers, slick with his blood, and shoved it into his pocket where it hit against his thigh as he raised his rifle again. 

Why weren’t they coming inside? Did they not know? He heard more gunshots and froze, pointing his gun towards the door. He heard confused voices through the open window above the sink. 

“Put down your weapons! Don’t shoot!” Ludwig froze. “I’m not with the Axis!” Ludwig lowered his gun and the door opened, revealing a boy hardly older than sixteen. His face looked slightly ashen and his hair was tangled from the wind, his expression a little overly determined. “Are you Ludwig Beilschmidt?” He asked. Ludwig nodded slowly, lowering the gun fully but keeping his finger poised on the trigger. “Alfred Jones, charming young American pilot rapidly rising through the ranks at your service.” He said slowly, saluting. “You do speak English, right?” 

“Yes.” Ludwig said. “What are you doing here?” 

“I’m looking for Feliciano Vargas, your apparent partner in crime,” Alfred said. “His brother sent me to find him and help bring him home.” Ludwig narrowed his eyes, finger still glued to the trigger as he called Feliciano downstairs. The wood creaked slowly as Feliciano walked gingerly down the steps, pausing at the landing to examine the scene in the kitchen before hurrying down the stairs, recognizing Alfred’s uniform. 

“Did Lovi send you? Did my brother send you?” Feliciano asked, gripping the banister. Alfred nodded and Feliciano grinned, letting go and running over to Alfred to hug him. Ludwig shifted, swallowing the tinge of envy that had suddenly soured his stomach. Alfred nodded and Feliciano laughed aloud. “ _Grazie a Dio, grazie, grazie!_ ” Feliciano spun on the spot. “I’m going home? I’m done serving?” Feliciano asked. 

“You’re Italian, so I don’t really know how all the rules work but I’d guess you’re probably allowed to go home. I mean, I’m taking you home and I doubt anyone’s going to come knocking.” Feliciano stared back at Ludwig, smiling like Ludwig had never seen him smile before. 

“Can you believe it?” He cried, grabbing Ludwig’s hands in his and spinning again, dragging Ludwig along with him. “You could come with,” Feliciano said when they stilled. “I could show you Papa’s studio and you could meet Lovi and Antonio! Are we flying, Alfred?” 

“Of course we are!” Alfred said. Feliciano grinned and spun Ludwig in another circle. 

“I’m going home, we’re going home!”

**_____________**

“Lovino!” Antonio bolted into the Vargas’ sitting room where Lovino was slumped, reading his father’s annotated copy of Illiad again. “Lovi, I have great news! It might even make you smile.” Antonio said, perching on the arm of Lovino’s chair. _Unlikely._ He thought bitterly, setting his book down all the same. “Alfred called me last night. He’s with Feliciano and Ludwig in an American air base and he’s flying Feliciano home tomorrow. He’ll be home around five tomorrow evening.” Lovino stared at him. 

“Do you mean it?” He whispered. 

“Yes!” Antonio said. Lovino let out a surprise laugh, feeling tears springing to his eyes. He reached up to hug Antonio. “Alfred tracked him down. I told you he could.” Antonio said, setting his chin on top of Lovino’s head and hugging him back. 

“Thank you, thank you Antonio, thank you so much…” Lovino hid his face against Antonio’s chest, tempted to start sobbing right there in the living room before he suddenly let go and leaned back. “Oh my God, it was his birthday two days ago, we’ve got to go get him something!” Lovino said. He leapt up and Antonio had been right after all: his face split into a smile and he was smiling, really smiling, because he was finally going to see Feliciano again after two long years. 

**_____________**

Feliciano smiled to himself as he and Ludwig sat outside at the back of the airbase, looking at the hangars and blinking lights as breeze toyed idly with the loose strands of his hair. There was silence beside the distant roar of planes until suddenly Feliciano gasped.

“I just realized I never read your card.” Feliciano said, digging in his coat pocket. Ludwig blushed, hidden by the shadows from the night. He opened it slowly. “Dear Feliciano,” he read aloud. “Perhaps it’s improper of me to say these sort of things, but seeing as we have gone through quite a lot together, I feel justified in them.” Feliciano laughed. “You _always_ talk proper, Ludwig.” Ludwig shrugged. “I know I’m not the best at communicating my emotions sometimes, but it’s easier in writing, and I feel like war reminds people that it’s worth thanking people who deserve a thank you. 

“I don’t know any other way to say, at least in English, (maybe there is a way in Italian) that if it weren’t for you, I would have lost my ability to hope. But now I’ve begun to believe in a brighter tomorrow, something I never used to dream of freezing on that battlefield where I thought any second might be my last. I wanted to apologize that this is what life has given you, because someone as sweet and talented as you belongs somewhere far, far, far away from the front lines. 

“Thank you, and happy birthday. I hope that you will have many more, and that they will be happier than this one.” Feliciano looked up. Ludwig was actually hiding his face in his hands. Feliciano didn’t think he’d ever seen Ludwig willingly display his emotions like that before. “Ludwig…” Feliciano slipped the note in his pocket and hugged him.

“Don’t…” Ludwig said. 

“Do you really want me to stop?” Feliciano asked. Ludwig blushed but said nothing. “I didn’t think so,” Feliciano mused, hugging Ludwig tighter. And to his shock, Ludwig hugged Feliciano back, his arms encircling and warm. “Thank you, Ludwig.” Feliciano said quietly, meeting his eyes. 

His lashes scattered shadows on his blue irises in the dying daylight. The shadows outlined the curve of his Cupid’s bow, where Feliciano’s eyes drifted and settled; there on Ludwig’s lips. 

“Every day was a little bit easier because of you, everything feels a little bit happier with you.” Feliciano said. “I feel like I’m doing some good in the world.” 

“You could do nothing but, Feliciano,” Ludwig’s voice was shaking, but not with tears or fear. Whatever it was, Feliciano couldn’t name it. “You’ve reminded me that there is still good in this world.” Feliciano closed his eyes, just closed his eyes, but then he felt warmth against his lips and a hand on his cheek. 

Ludwig’s lips were cracked and dry but at the same time like spring air at the end of winter, and they were so much better than imagination. Feliciano cradled the back of Ludwig’s head in his hands, melting in the closeness, the heat, the feeling that he would never know hurt again. 

But before he could get utterly lost in the feeling, Ludwig broke away. “Feliciano,” he whispered, taking Feliciano's hands. Ludwig softly kissed his knuckles, keeping his lips lingering there before saying, “no, not now.” Feliciano’s heart dropped into his stomach and sank down into the ground, down under the dirt. 

“Ludwig…” Feliciano murmured. 

“After this is over, I promise. I promise we’ll see each other again.” Feliciano leaned his cheek against Ludwig’s shoulder, and Ludwig put a hand to his head, stroking his hair idly like he had always wanted to do. “I don’t want to take that smile off your face,” he murmured, putting his hand back to Feliciano’s cheek and gently tilting his face towards his own. Feliciano placed his hand over Ludwig’s. “Go home to your studio, where it’s always sunny.” 


	10. Against the Sky

“Good morning, Captain Jones.” Ludwig said. Alfred looked up at him through his glasses. 

“Good morning, Ludwig! And call me Alfred, no need to be formal.” He said. Ludwig flinched at his loud cheeriness. They were standing near one of the hangars, Alfred already dressed in his bomber jacket, looking far too cheerful considering they were standing on an army base. “How’s it going?” 

“I’m having a crisis of conscious.” Ludwig’s voice was stiff. Alfred raised his eyebrows. “I hate the war, but I want it to end.” He murmured. “I want to fight. For the Allies. I want to join the American military and fight the Germans with you, if they'd let me.” 

“Wow, you’re taking treason to a _whole_ new level.” Alfred said. “I respect that, kid.” He said, punching Ludwig on the arm. Ludwig felt it would be pointless to bring up the fact that Alfred was a year younger than him and also resisted the urge to look irritated. “I don't know, but I'm sure I could talk to some people. We could use dedicated, quick-to-act people like you.” 

“But does it make me…” Ludwig trailed off. 

“Hmm?” Alfred asked. 

“Does it make me a monster, wanting to fight?” Ludwig asked, staring at the ground. 

“Depends. Why do you want to?” 

“One of my best friends is Jewish.” Ludwig swallowed. “He’s been like an older brother to me.”

Ludwig shifted the cuff of his sleeve, picturing the day he had heard Roderich busily trying to play one of Mozart’s symphonies while he had stood in the doorway. Roderich was thirteen and Ludwig seven. He had seen Ludwig lurking in the doorway and paused. _Come here, Lud, so you can hear better._ Ludwig had come and sit on the bench with him to listen, mesmerized by his careful playing. He seemed to understand Ludwig’s desire for quiet and calm, and Roderich’s piano always soothed Ludwig’s nerves when they got too raw. 

“And you want to fight for him, hm?” Alfred asked. 

“Not just for him. For everyone being persecuted.” Ludwig said. “They’re human beings. They deserve to be treated like people. I don’t… I don’t understand how anyone can look at another human being and think they’re anything less than that.” Ludwig’s voice guttered like a dying candle. He stared at the ground. _But Feliciano…_ “But I’m tempted to go home, too.” Ludwig said. “I don’t know the right choice. I wanted an unbiased party.” he added. 

“Not to get too personal with you, but if given the choice between myself and the lives of millions of other people, I’d probably choose the other people.” Ludwig sighed. “You’ve been through some shit, though, and I wouldn’t think less of you if you wanted to go home. Make the choice you think is right.” Alfred put a hand on Ludwig’s shoulder. “But you do have to make up your mind soon. _We’re leaving in two hours_ soon.” 

Ludwig found Feliciano chatting with some American soldiers when he returned from his talk with Alfred, but he bounced away from them when he saw Ludwig. He grinned and waited a few seconds for them to disappear around one of the makeshift barracks before grabbing Ludwig’s hands. 

“Good morning, Ludwig!” He said, his voice so playful. It crushed him. And when Feliciano kissed him on the cheek his chest felt hollow like all his bones and organs had disappeared and all that was left was the lonely echoing beat of his heart. 

“Feli.” Ludwig’s throat seemed to be trying to close up. He felt sick. “I’m not going home with you. I’m going to stay here. I’m going to fight in the military.” Feliciano stared at him, his smile faltering but still there, like his face couldn’t catch up with his emotions. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Ludwig wanted to hug him, but would that make it worse? Why was this making him want to vomit? 

“Oh,” was the only sound Feliciano could force. “It makes sense. You’re a good soldier.” 

“I’m sorry…” Ludwig repeated, staring at the ground. Feliciano put a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look up, though really still down because Feliciano was so much shorter than him. 

“No! Don’t apologize for living your life. You’re only responsible for yourself, not me. I’ll be just fine.” Feliciano promised. Ludwig’s shoulders felt heavy when Feliciano took his hand back. “Just, Ludwig…?” Feliciano was staring at the ground. He looked up, and his voice shivered with the forming tears in his eyes. “Don’t forget about me, okay?”

  


**_____________**

Feliciano’s eyes were glued to the windows nearly the entire flight from Belarus to Italy. Taking off made him nervous but also wildly excited to watch the world sink away, see the patchwork of fields, the dark slashes of small lakes, ponds, a river. He imagined one of the those farms was where he had sat in the fields with Ludwig and they’d talk about about they’d go if the war was over, one of those lakes the one Feliciano had urged him to jump in just a few nights before. A place where finally they weren’t fugitives or soldiers or traitors, they were just two teenagers romanticizing freedom and growing up and the future. 

Feliciano reached in his pocket for Ludwig’s card, feeling a distant ache pull beneath his ribs. Maybe he shouldn’t have felt so hurt, so lost, but he did, even though he was going home. Home to Antonio’s music, the olive grove where he sat and sketched, his studio where it was always sunny. And yet… Feliciano swallowed. Maybe the pain would leave him when he got home. Maybe this was just some attachment formed through trauma that would be unwound as soon as his life was a stable again. 

Feliciano held onto the paper and he closed his eyes as tears formed beneath his eyelids. He was angry at himself for feeling betrayed. Ludwig’s life was his own, and… _I don’t want to take that smile off your face._ Feliciano closed his eyes harder. He would go all in, would shatter his heart into a million pieces if it meant he could feel alive. But Ludwig liked order, he liked knowing the future, and he did not like taking chances that were shots in the dark. 

Alfred tapped Feliciano on the shoulder. He turned. “We’re landing in a second,” he said. “Antonio’s waiting for you to drive you home.” He added. Feliciano hurriedly thanked him again, his heart lifting, raised out of the heavy bindings that had been weighing it down. He was going to see his family and friends again, and he was free, free of having to ever go back. Feliciano’s eyes went back to the windows as they began their descent onto a grassy field that had to be somewhere outside of Rome. Feliciano watched the ground rise up closer and closer until the wheels skimmed the grass and the small plane landed with a gentle bump. The countryside slipped by the windows, only stilling when the plane finally stopped. 

When Feliciano was free of the plane he stepped out into the sun, the warm, warm sun, stretching and sighing. Alfred walked him to where Antonio was parked by the side of the road. When he saw Feliciano he started forward and Feliciano ran to him, hugging him tightly and grabbing the back of his coat. “Welcome home, Feli!” Antonio hugged him so hard Feliciano was lifted up off his toes for a moment before Antonio let go. 

The car door opened and Lovino tripped out. “Feli! Feliciano!” Feliciano had never seen his brother so willingly hug him in his life, silently pulling Feliciano to his chest and holding him there the way someone clutches at water in their cupped hands. Feliciano wrapped his arms around Lovino’s back, tears wet on his cheeks already. “You're home.” Lovino added, sounding almost close to tears. 

"Not yet." Feliciano said. "Can we go? I want to see Mamma and Papà and go up to the studio,” he said, walking with Lovino and Antonio towards the car. “Thank you Alfred!” Feliciano called, waving to him. He was standing a ways back, and there seemed to be some bad reflection of longing in his face. Feliciano wondered who he was wishing he could hug again. He hoped Alfred would see them soon. 

Feliciano sat in the backseat while Antonio and Lovino settled in the driver's and passenger seats respectively. As they began the drive, Lovino turned around to face Feliciano. 

“Are you tired?” Lovino asked. “It's a pretty long ways home, so if you need to sleep, you should now.” Feliciano nodded, leaning back against the seats. “We missed you so much.” Lovino said softly. “I know I’m an asshole, but you’re my little brother and… And you know I love you, right?” Lovino's voice was nearly inaudible. Feliciano smiled. 

“I know.” Feliciano said quietly. “I love you too.”   



	11. Dropped My Eyes

_July 1943_

As the months passed, Feliciano found it both easy and incredibly difficult to adjust to being home. He almost felt he had never left at all whenever he was cooking with his mother or down in the city center with his friends, going to the market with Lovino and singing on late nights when Antonio was playing his guitar. 

Other times were not so forgiving. It wasn’t just nightmares about death and blood and fighting, it was the feeling he had lost some part of himself somewhere and didn’t know what to do to get it back. There were nights it became haunting, particularly on the trips he took with Romulus to small towns in the countryside where he danced with bored girls who whispered their dreams of far off places to him in the forming dusk. Their dreams got stars in his eyes and soon he was fantasizing about leaving too. 

Unlike them, though, he was not stuck in some little farming town lost on maps. He had everything in Rome. 

Maybe not everything.

Sitting here on the terrace, staring at the empty blue sky, Feliciano felt his heart still aching for Ludwig. He was somewhere out there in the world, far away under the limitless forget-me-not heavens. Maybe it was black and flecked with stars where he was, maybe bloody with sunset or sunrise. 

Feliciano knew it wasn’t healthy to fixate. Maybe he should have forgotten about Ludwig long ago, written him off as someone who he would never see again, but Feliciano believed stubbornly in happy endings. He seemed to expect them, like a child hearing a fairy tale for the first time and knowing the story would end only with _happily ever after_. 

He sipped dully at a bottle of San Pellegrino lemonade, thinking about how it was the last one and he would buy more soon. He was bored, a little tired, watching the few clouds that streaked the sky. 

Abruptly he heard footsteps and looked down the drive. Lovino was hurrying up towards the house, two letters in his hand. 

“Feli! Hey!” Feliciano sat up, setting his lemonade down on the veranda. “You got a letter,” Lovino said, coming up the steps and passing one of them to him. “Maybe from your soldier friend you mentioned. I don’t recognize the name. Sounds German,” Lovino said. Feliciano sat up straight. He half-nodded and took the letter from Lovino, his heart beating so hard it hurt. Was it… Was it…? He fumbled to open the envelope as Lovino went back inside, the door closing with a snap. 

_Dear Feliciano,_

_It’s Ludwig. How has everything been back at home? Is it as wonderful as you imagined? I hope it is. I hope you’re very, very happy. It felt unjust of me to do what I did and then say goodbye without giving you any hope for the future, though I suppose you wouldn’t need it; something I always envied of you was your ability to hope and hope even when it feels like there’s truly nothing left to hope for._

_I’m safe. Obviously I can’t tell you where I am, but if you write me back to this address it’s likely I’ll get it, if you even want to speak to me at all anymore. I hope you do. I’m sorry it took me so long to write to you, I just haven’t been settled down for the past year, but you deserve some form of communication from me._

_It hardly feels like months, but neither does it feel like the days. Time has seemed to have stopped here. Everything has gone idle, but perhaps your words could give the minutes some meaning._

_Ludwig Beilschmidt_

Feliciano reread the words until they no longer carried meaning and just stared at Ludwig’s handwriting, clean cut lines written in some dark fountain pen. Something shifted in his chest, burning off the old bitter the ache. Feliciano folded the letter and held it to his heart, staring at the steps and feeling a smile creep across his face. Ludwig wanted Feliciano to write him back. He wanted to hear from him again. 

Feliciano jumped up and hugged the paper tight to his chest. 

Still grinning, Feliciano carefully settled the letter on a page of his sketchbook and closed it, grabbing the lemonade and turning for the door to hurry up to his room. He was intent on writing Ludwig as soon as possible. He sat at his desk and grabbed one of Lovino’s nice pens, the kind that would instantly give him a brain hemorrhage if he knew Feliciano had used it. He started to write, not exactly sure where his words were going but not needing to. 

**_____________**

Roderich held his breath in silence, curled against the back wall of the Beilschmidt’s cellar behind two heavy shelves of dried meat, preserves, and other foodstuffs. Elizabeta shouldn't be with him. She should be upstairs, because if he was caught, he wouldn’t let her be dragged away too. 

It was dark and the cold was unforgiving. Elizabeta was cradling Roderich’s head to her chest. He could hear her heartbeat, rapid and nearly stuttering. He shut his eyes and swallowed, wishing he could hear more of what they were saying upstairs, biting on his lip hard so he wouldn’t cry. Elizabeta put a hand to the side of his head, stroking his hair wordlessly as they sat in the dark, in the cold, huddled as if in a sepulchre in sour winter months. 

Laughter from upstairs. Elizabeta held Roderich a little tighter and their hearts seemed to go dead in their chests as they heard the creak of the cellar door. 

“Of course,” Aldrich's voice. Beside them, Elizabeta saw a small strip of light across the dirty floor from the open door. She covered her mouth with her hand, like when she had been eight playing hide and seek and heard Gilbert come tromping into the room where she was hiding and she had to stop herself giggling and getting caught. Footsteps, slow, tortuous footsteps. 

“I admire the cleanliness of your cellar, Herr Beilschmidt.” Roderich shut his eyes so tightly his eyelids began to get sore. More footsteps. The arm around Roderich’s shoulders was going numb, Elizabeta’s fingers unfeeling as she clutched at his sleeve. 

“Well, back upstairs then. I thought I smelled a rat.” The light vanished as the door clicked shut. Elizabeta took her hand from her mouth, but they still stayed unmoving and tacit for seconds, minutes, hours, until they heard Gilbert and Aldrich’s voices. They came and pulled the shelves back with difficulty, revealing where Elizabeta and Roderich sat cowering against the wall, fingertips and lips slightly blued from the frigid air. 

Gilbert fell down on his knees in front of them. Roderich slowly sat up but slid back against Elizabeta, trembling from the cold and fear. He didn’t want to ask what the man had wanted, if he had been looking for Ludwig (who the SS seemed certain his family was hiding), or himself, even though for so long Roderich had thought he would not have to worry about being hunted.

In that second he shut his eyes he imagined he was back home, sitting in his bedroom and looking down at the sprawling fields beyond the windows, nestled at the base of the Austrian Alps. 

But no sooner had he tried to imagine home than he thought of that day when he had been holding his violin, trying to work on the accompaniment to a piece he’d written. He had almost forgotten to be frustrated because his thoughts were only of the music academy he was going to be attending once the summer ended, a place where his songs might get noticed by someone who could take it outside the confines of his small rural village, so small hardly anyone knew he even existed. Roderich had been smiling wildly, thinking of his future, his _perfect_ future with his fiancée, who he loved even more than the sound of music itself. 

It had taken just a knock on the door to take that all away, his parents shuffling in, asking him to set his violin down. 

_ Please let me stay with you… I don’t want to leave you…  _

_ You’ve have to. Now, before anyone comes to take our names.  _

_ But Vati, they’ll find my anyway. Please don’t make me go… Mutti, I…  _

_ I know sweetheart, I know. Elizabeta’s going with you. You’re going to be safe, I promise. And when it’s all over you we’ll be in the audience while you’re conducting your symphonies. Just think of that. It’s going to be okay.  _  
  


Roderich blinked. He opened his eyes, back in the cellar. 

“You’ve got to stay hidden, Rod,” Gilbert said softly. “They were looking for Ludwig, but… But I think they suspect, I don’t know how, but…” Gilbert trailed off. 

“I’ll go get some quilts from your bed,” Elizabeta murmured, hurrying up to the steps. Everyone knew her abrupt departure was just to hide her tears. Roderich wished she would stay. He wanted her to stay by him, at least for a few more minutes. 

“Roderich, are you okay?” Gilbert asked softly. Roderich shook his head. “You’ll be safe. We’ll keep you safe, I promise. And Ludwig’s out their kicking those Nazi’s asses. He’s going to help end this war and then you can get into that music college and maybe you can pick up a thing or two about staying in tune and help me achieve my dream of being a champion operatic singer, put in a good word with a professor or two to get me in.” Gilbert added. Roderich shook his head a little. 

“I can’t play the piano anymore, can I?” He asked dismally. 

“Of course—” Gilbert started. 

“No, I’m sorry, Roderich.” Aldrich said. Gilbert turned to his father incredulously. “We don’t know when they’ll come back, Gilbert, but they will. You need to stay down here until… You’ve got to stay down here.” Roderich nodded. “Go upstairs, Gilbert.” Aldrich murmured. “I’ll have him bring you dinner down once it’s ready. I’m sure Elizabeta is willing to get you anything else you need,” Aldrich said, watching Gilbert scamper back to the steps before he crouched down in front of Roderich, who was driving the heels of his hands against his eyes. “It’s going to be okay, Roderich,” he said softly. Roderich shook his head. 

“You don’t know that.” He said stiffly. 

“Everything ends.” Aldrich said. “Yes, the good ends, but the bad ends too.” 

“I’m scared.” Roderich murmured. “I’m so scared…” 

“No one is going to find you. They took my son from me, they’re not taking you too.”

  



	12. Acquainted With the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t think I really made it clear, so: in this AU Ancient Rome (Romulus) / Ancient Greece (Aurelia) are Feliciano and Lovino’s parents
> 
> Translation Notes:  
> Alles Liebe - Much love  
> Ich liebe dich - I love you  
> Auf wiedersehen/Addio - Goodbye  
> Liebling - Darling  
> Con tutto il mio cuore - With all my heart  
> Anch’io ti amo - I love you too

Ludwig supposed he should have gotten used to this painful drudgery through slow days that never seemed to end. He was lucky to not have been put on the front lines since Russia, and the nightmares had faded some, but he still woke to them. He was not the only one, yet he still felt alone in his suffering because no one had gone out of their way to befriend him.

He settled his hands over his stomach, praying again that he might get a letter from Feliciano. Just one letter, so at least he would not be entirely alone. His heart felt painful, almost sore in a sort of way, like how it had felt when he’d had to walk on a broken leg. He had written Gilbert too, but he didn’t just want his brother’s words. He wanted Feli’s too, needed them. 

Ludwig rolled over, staring out the darkening windows, thinking of Feliciano, wishing for those nights he had laughed with him and Feliciano had sung him to sleep. Ludwig hid his eyes to avoid the other soldiers that had come in and were changing, chattering like morning birds outside sunny windows.

“Ludwig!” Ludwig sat up, surprised to see Alfred walking towards him through the wire-frame beds. He wasn’t used to seeing Alfred here, as he was always off on challenging, “epic” missions, or so he said when he returned. Ludwig supposed it must be true, especially seeing as his rank was so high for someone who was just shy of seventeen. Ludwig was surprised someone so young was even _allowed_ in the army. “Hey, dude, how are you?” Alfred asked. 

“Tired.” Ludwig said blankly. “A little lonely, if I’m being honest.” 

“Well, I’ve got something that might cheer you up.” Alfred grinned. “A letter? From your Italian friend?” Ludwig sat up straight as Alfred produced the envelope. “I’m glad you heard from Feliciano. I’ll be around for the rest of the week if you ever want some company. I know people haven’t been exactly, uh, you know, friendly, towards you.” Ludwig nodded, thanking him for the letter and watching him go. With shaking fingers he slowly opened it. 

_Dearest Ludwig,_

_You have no idea how glad I was to get your letter. I’m so glad you’re safe. To answer your questions, home is wonderful, even better than what I thought. I forgot how clear the birdsong is, and how wild the ocean is, and how gentle summer rain is. Have you ever stood out in the rain before, when it’s humid and the rain is cool? It’s the best feeling in the world._

_I hope that didn’t make you homesick! Mama says the war’s probably going to end soon, and then you could come visit me in Rome. We have a summer house in Sicily. I bet you’d like it there, because it’s quiet and beautiful._

_I was so worried about you. I keep thinking about you, do you ever think of me? I keep thinking about when you kissed me while we watched the planes. I got to take a plane back to Italy, and it was amazing being above the clouds. We got to see the sunset and Papa was right, the colors were gorgeous. The first thing I painted when I got home was the sunset._

_Antonio went back to Spain, but he’s coming back soon. I miss having him around. I don’t like being alone, because, Ludwig… I keep thinking about that man. I can’t stop thinking of the feeling of my finger on the trigger. Sometimes I wake up in the night and I scream and Lovino tries to calm me down but nothing he says works. One night it was so terrible he had to run and get Mama. Does that ever happen to you? Maybe it’s just because I’m weak, at least that’s what people tell me._

_In the past when bad things happen, once they’re over, I just don’t think about them anymore, but it’s like I can’t forget this time, I see it every time I close my eyes when I’m alone. I hate being alone._

_Write me back when you can. What are the Americans like? Are they as loud and annoying as Mama says? Are they nice to you?_

_I hope I’ll get to see you soon._

Con tutto il mio cuore _,_

_Feliciano Vargas_

Ludwig shut his eyes and then reread the letter once, then folded it carefully and tucked it back in the envelope. A warmth went through his body, like that of summer rain and birdsong and the breeze off the ocean. 

_Dearest Feliciano,_

_The Americans aren’t terribly kind to me, but don’t worry for me. I will be alright. Alfred visits me sometimes and he is always nice._

_As for your nightmares, I promise it is not only you who wakes in the night and cries out, or who feels they’ve committed some grievous sin. Though I’ve always loved being alone, I’ve started to despise loneliness, because as odd as it may sound I do not believe they are the same thing; now even when I am surrounded by people, I feel loneliness more than I ever did when I walked in the woods alone. When I wake up in the night there’s no one to take my hand, but God I wish you were here to._

_Though my thoughts don’t go to you only when I am lonely, or only when the hour is dull. Every passing day we get closer to the end of this war. I don’t know when that day will be, but it will someday, and when it’s over you’ll see me again, I promise you, and even my incoherent brother could pledge that I’ve never broken a promise._

_I try not to fantasize about the future, but amidst this living hell, it’s hard not to picture your face and find some comfort knowing that when this ends, you’ll be there. I had hoped that the feelings would fade because I fear the worst and I wouldn’t want to hurt you like that. I know the pain of loss and it burns like a hole straight through your whole being, through your soul. I feel as though I know that ache well, being so far from light and love._

_Some things aren’t wise to ignore. Sometimes there are people you meet and know they’ll always be there, even if only leaving a mark on your life. And hour after hour I sat alone with my thoughts I realized I didn’t want you to just be a fading mark, I wanted you to be here, here with me._

_I’m only eighteen, I know. As much as I have grown up fast, I’m still young. Frankly I have no idea what I’m talking about, as I’m incredibly inexperienced in relationships, but this certainly seems like something I shouldn’t let go of._

_You seem like_ someone _I shouldn’t let go of._

Alles Liebe, 

_Ludwig_

_Ludwig, my love,_

_(Does that sound odd?) The last letter you sent me made me blush so hard everyone thought I had a fever and it made me smile so wide everyone thought I must have become delirious from it. I_ feel _delirious, reading your words. Giddy, giggly, almost stupid, like I’m sort of drunk._

_I wish I could speak to you. I have so much to say, too much to write down. I miss your smile and I miss your voice. I almost miss those freezing nights in the barn because you’d let me lay against you and you’d talk to me until the sun went down and still when the moon came up. Everything’s so dead in the winters there and I wasn’t used to it being so quiet. It was unsettling, but your voice always made me feel better. It was gentle when nothing else was._

_My heart hurts at the idea of you drowning in loneliness and bad dreams. I wish I could lay with you to chase it all away and hold your hand when you woke in the night. I’m saying “I wish” a lot, aren’t I? It’s so frustrating, being so far away, when I want to speak to you so badly and my body wants your touch again. That feeling of your lips, your hands… I think of it so much I bet I’m not even remembering it right anymore. Surely no kiss could be that wonderful._

_Lovino took his lighter back, but maybe I’ll borrow it from him and make a wish. I can’t tell you what it is, of course, but if it comes true, you’ll know. Did your wish ever come true?_

Ich liebe dich, 

_Feliciano_

_Feliciano,_ liebling _,_

_This may be one of the last letters I can write for a long while. As for my wish, it did come true, because I wished for happiness, and you wrote that you loved me, and I laughed aloud when I read it because it was like a rush of happiness went through my whole body._

_I don’t know what love feels like, but I’ve chosen to believe that it’s the feeling that goes through me when I’m with you and when I read your words._

_You talked of becoming delirious over my writing which baffles and startles me some, as I could never imagine someone like me prompting that reaction from you. It is not so much a delirium for me as it is like I’ve stumbled into a waking daydream, a wonderful place waiting for me on the other side of the nightmares._

_How I’d hoped to tell you more, but there is little time, since we're leaving our current location, though I don't know where we're going yet. I hope your wish comes true._

_For now I must say a bitter_ auf wiedersehen _and_ addio _._

Anch’io ti amo. 

_Ludwig_


	13. Out in Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation Notes:  
> Passerotto - Little sparrow

The door opened so jarringly that Feliciano yelped a little bit, his withering copy of Plutarch’s writings collapsing onto his lap along with Ludwig’s letter. He was shocked to find it was his mother who had slammed the door so loudly, and when she saw him she ran over the hugged him. He patted her back, a little confused, and when she leaned away he saw she was grinning wildly. 

“They’ve finally done it, _passerotto_!” She said, putting her hands on his cheeks. Feliciano perked up, smiling slightly. “The Allies have landed in Sicily!” She cried, and Feliciano hugged her again, laughing with her before she called Lovino and Romulus downstairs to relay the news. Lovino stayed poised on the steps, a hint of hope clouding his irritated expression. “The English and the Americans landed in Sicily today, I heard it downtown. Romulus! Turn the radio on!” Romulus bolted into the living room towards the radio that was resting by the open window. He sat down in the seat beside Feliciano and leaned forward to turn it on while Lovino sat down beside him. 

They clustered around the small radio, hoping for any shred of news, Feliciano more than any of them. He sat with bated breath. 

_“...combined Allied forces, the US Seventh Army and British Eighth Army have landed on the coast of Sicily.”_ Feliciano’s heart sped up and he bit the inside of his lip to stop himself from gasping in excitement. Feliciano leaned back in the chair, hugging the copy of _Parallel Lives_ to his chest, Ludwig’s letter between the first two pages. _“The Allies are likely trying to gain control of Axis-held island and may finally be beginning an invasion of Italy.”_

Feliciano leaned back further in the chair in relief. For once it seemed like things were changing for the better. He went upstairs to his and Lovino’s shared room, considering writing Ludwig but getting lost in staring out the half-open windows towards the olive orchard and the sky, washed-out from a storm the previous night. The door opened behind him, and Lovino walked in, shutting the door softly. 

“Can I ask you something?” Feliciano murmured, leaning on his hand. Lovino nodded, settling on the edge of his bed and reaching for his boots from underneath it. 

“What, Feliciano?” His voice was tired, but at least it was not annoyed. 

“How do you know if you’re in love?” Lovino squinted. 

“Why the fuck would you ask me something like that?” Lovino asked, starting to lace up his boots. Feliciano sighed, his fingers worrying at the edge of Ludwig’s letter. “You think you’ve fallen in love with someone?” Feliciano smiled slightly, but Lovino cut him off before he got the chance to speak. “You’re too young, too naïve to understand real love. I don’t understand it and I’ve got twice the common sense you’ll ever have.” His hands slipped on his laces. “I’ve made nothing but stupid decisions. I’m the worst person you could ever ask.” Feliciano didn’t ask Lovino tell him more, because he knew when his brother didn’t want to talk, nothing would make him. “I’m going to pick up Antonio from the train station.” He added. Finally Feliciano perked up. 

“Oh, great! I haven’t seen him in nearly _two_ years.” Feliciano paused. It was jarring to think that that much time had passed. “Why hasn’t he been visiting, Lovi? Do you know?” Lovino sighed. 

“I told you, didn’t I? I make a lot of stupid decisions. It’s a cliché, but it’s true, love makes us all into fools.” 

**_____________**

An unforgiving heat was choking the small train station platform where Lovino stood, his eyes getting more and more frantic as he scanned the small clusters of people. Finally, finally Lovino saw his smile, his own searching eyes, and he forgot for a split second about the crowds and ran to him. 

“Antonio,” he said, his voice breathless though he had only walked a few feet. “Antonio, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” Antonio held up a hand. 

“It’s okay.” He said. “I tried. And I know you tried too, but me staying away… Did it change anything, the way you wanted it to?” Lovino shook his head and Antonio hung his. “So it’s true what they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder,” Antonio murmured. Lovino met his eyes but wanted to look away because he he didn’t want Antonio to see the utter helplessness in his expression. “But you know no matter how far I go, how far _you_ go, I’ll always run back to you.” Antonio murmured. 

The streets were filled with chattering people, some smiling or with surly expressions. Others looked fearful and rightly so with the threat of more bombing over Rome. Lovino’s hand brushed Antonio’s as they walked. He didn’t dare reach out and take it though his fingers seemed to ache for Antonio’s. He was telling Lovino about his garden back in Spain, about how well everything was growing, how it was one of his best crops in years. He was smiling and in that moment it was as if all the passed time had meant nothing and never would mean anything. 

_How do you know if you’re in love?_

“What are you thinking about, Lovi?” Antonio asked. Lovino shrugged. “When are we leaving for Palermo?” Lovino turned and finally met Antonio’s eyes. The memory of that time he had seen them filled with tears burned at the backs of his own. He didn’t understand how anyone could ever be so forgiving, not after he had told Antonio that this was all wrong and he needed to leave and stay away until there was nothing left in Lovino yearning and hoping for him, but it didn’t go way. It only worsened, only burned like acid in his chest until he could take it no longer. 

“Tomorrow night. It would be just the two of us, but Feliciano’s coming too. He won’t bother us.” Lovino said. “Antonio,” Lovino paused on the busy Roman street, pulling him into a small decrepit alley still wet with puddles from last night’s rain. He stared at their distorted reflections and then reached for Antonio’s hands, meeting his eyes.

“I love you.” He had never said it, not once, but the words had festered in the back of his throat like bile. “I love you, and I want to be with you.” 

Antonio squeezed his hands and smiled. “I love you too.” He said quietly. “And I want to be with you too.” 

“But we can’t get married. We can’t even be together,” Lovino ducked his head and Antonio put his hand gently to the back of his neck. 

“Shh, it’s alright, Lovi,” Antonio murmured, rubbing his nape gently. “We could move to some small beach town and have an olive orchard like yours at home. I could grow my tomatoes,” Antonio said, smiling as Lovino looked up at him. “And then perhaps we could find some compromisable priest to marry us in our little villa, if it matters so much to you.” Lovino shook his head slightly, leaning away from Antonio.

“It doesn’t, I just… I missed you so much.” Lovino hid his face back against Antonio’s neck. His shut his eyes and focused on the feeling of Antonio’s hand running over his nape again. 

“We should get home before anyone starts wondering what’s taking us so long, hmm?” Lovino nodded and they wandered out of the alley, Antonio humming brightly as they walked down the crowded streets.


	14. Stood Still

Feliciano inhaled the warm scent of the summery air off the ocean as he marched to downtown Palermo with his sketchbook under his arm. There was a small café near the seaside, a place run-down and never quite loved by anyone except for Feliciano, who would sit out on the veranda and sketch the sea until his hand ached and was sheered silver with graphite. 

He passed through the small cluttered place out onto the veranda, where a tight crowd of people were sitting at various tables, talking over mediocre coffee or grumbling about politics while sucking on cigarettes. Feliciano sat down at the table closest to the sea and glanced out towards the water before looking up incredulously. It wasn’t, it couldn’t… 

Feliciano jumped up. His chair nearly fell back. He dropped his sketchbook on the table and tripped over his chair leg, turning the attention of half the people to him, though they quickly looked away in irritation. 

“Ludwig!” Feliciano yelled. Ludwig was staring at him in utter shock, but he began to smile a smile like the rich gold of sunrise spilling over the ocean after a storm. 

Ludwig got up slowly, with far more grace than Feliciano, and reached down to hug him hurriedly. If they had been alone, he would have held on longer, he would have held onto Feliciano the way someone would cling to the edge of an overturned boat in a tempest. “Are you… Are you…” 

“I’ve been stationed here, in Palermo, for at least a few months.” Feliciano beckoned him over to his own table. “How have you been, Feliciano?” He asked softly, and again Feliciano felt a shiver at the sound of his name on Ludwig’s lips, those he had kissed years ago but still longed to feel just once more, and then a thousand times more. 

“Missing you.” Feliciano said. “Things have been good for me, though. A church commissioned me, can you believe it?” He grinned. 

“I can.” Ludwig said. “An artist like you, of course they would.” Feliciano beamed. It was good just to speak again, to swap stories like they had in Katyusha’s barn, to sit close just as they had that October night out on the Russian war front. 

Feliciano wanted to touch Ludwig’s face and put his forehead to his and try to make him forget whatever horrors he had seen. He wanted to tell Ludwig that if he had been there when Ludwig woke up terrified in the night that he would take Ludwig’s hands and talk to him until he could close his eyes again, and Feliciano would stay by him all night to keep out the nightmares. 

They talked until the sky began to darken and they were shooed away by the owners, after which they wandered down to the beach. Once out of sight of the rest of the town Feliciano took Ludwig’s hand, intertwining their fingers and pausing where the sea gnawed at the shore, nipping at their ankles. There Feliciano stood up on his tiptoes, leaning his face towards Ludwig’s, asking silently for what he so badly wanted. 

Ludwig leaned and kissed him and this kiss was different than that cluttered one out on the airfield because it was not a goodbye that neither of them knew how to say; this was a welcome back out beside an ocean that was wild and harsh yet gentle all at once. 

Ludwig put his arms around Feliciano’s waist and Feliciano stumbled across the sand closer to him, resting his hands against Ludwig’s cheeks and inhaling the smell of salt underneath the fading sun. Feliciano opened his mouth, trying to encourage Ludwig to follow his lead some, tempting him lightly with his tongue as he pulled Ludwig down closer to himself with a gentleness Ludwig had forgotten existed. 

Feliciano was evidently far from inexperienced which made Ludwig even more hesitant, but Feliciano was patient and slow and eventually he was biting on Ludwig’s bottom lip and Ludwig was kissing him with a feeling of lost control he usually hated. 

However the moment was like the always-changing sunset colors behind the sea: though wonderful, very brief. They both broke away, facing each other while the wind blew Feliciano’s hair around his face. 

“Can you stay with me tonight?” Feliciano asked, voice like a susurrus. 

“Some other night. I’ve got to get back to the base,” Ludwig said quietly, cupping Feliciano’s cheek in his hand. Feliciano put his hand over Ludwig’s calloused fingers and worn knuckles, turning his head to kiss the center of Ludwig’s palm. “Tomorrow. Meet me at the café tomorrow morning, I’ll be there, okay?” 

“Okay.” Feliciano murmured. “You’ll walk back with me though, right?” Ludwig nodded, and they started back towards the town, Feliciano still holding tightly to Ludwig’s hand, dreading the moment he would have to let it go. 

**_____________**

The morning bordered on cold when Feliciano made his way to the café. Ludwig was sitting out front reading the paper, incredibly unspectacular to the passing people minus his uniform. Feliciano grabbed the back of the chair across from Ludwig and sat down, startling him a little. He didn’t used to startle like that. 

“ _Buongiorno,_ Ludwig!” Feliciano said. “I have a slight plan for you today, if you’re interested.” Ludwig nodded. “Obviously you can’t see my studio in Rome, but Papa has one at our Palermo cottage that he gave me permission to use all I wanted while I’m here. It’s also very pretty. It’s downstairs and there are big windows and you can see the ocean. Do you want to see it?” Ludwig smiled and nodded. “Alright! I want a cappuccino first.” Feliciano looked left and right, then leaned forward and whispered: “It’s not very good here, but the owner gives me nasty looks if I just sit and don’t buy anything.”

“You’re easily swayed by disapproval.” Ludwig said, raising his eyebrows. “You don’t have to drink the coffee, Feliciano. If she gives you a nasty look I’ll glare at her.” He said, rustling his paper importantly. 

“No, Ludwig, I don’t want to send her into cardiac arrest.” Feliciano shook his head. “And I was mostly joking. I do it because it’s polite.” Ludwig nodded and Feliciano got up to order then returned to the table, chatting idly until Feliciano finished the cappuccino and they started walking back down the lanes choked up with plants that clung to cracking concrete and green metal fences and gates.


	15. Back in Rain

The windows were open so the cottage smelled like the sunbaked stone and the warm air off the ocean. Feliciano lead Ludwig into the back of the house, into the little studio Romulus had set up for himself. The morning sun stained the polished hardwood and was streaked gold across the walls. It smelled like oil paints and wood, and Ludwig breathed it in. 

Feliciano stood in the sun and closed his eyes as the light played on his face, then turned to face Ludwig. 

“I wish there were some paintings here to show you,” he said. “This room looks so much more… alive with art in it.” 

“You could paint something,” Ludwig suggested, sitting on the window seat. He rearranged the pillows and stretched out his legs, looking down at the sea beneath them, the sailboats and the dull trails of white they left on the water. Feliciano used to curl in that same spot when he was younger, watching the boats or Romulus paint. 

“You too!” Feliciano said, stalking over to the easels and dragging two towards himself and then hunting in the cupboards for canvases. “Let me know what colors you want,” he said, standing on tiptoe to reach the paints.

“Have you worked with oils before?” he added. Ludwig shook his head, amused at his businesslike Feliciano had suddenly become. “Actually… let’s use watercolor so it doesn’t stain your uniform.” Feliciano bustled around getting the supplies and Ludwig watched him, studying the way the sun hit the loose strands of his hair that curled around his forehead in the wind. 

“I used to sit there and paint the ocean,” Feliciano said absently as he started sketching lightly. “It took me so, so long to get it right and I was so _frustrated_ because I never felt like I could.” He sighed. “What are you going to paint?” Ludwig shrugged, glaring at the paper and tapping the handle of his paintbrush to his lip. 

He thought of the roses that clung to the stone walls in Lübeck, or the crowds of well-dressed people in Berlin beneath the Brandenburg Gate. Then he thought of the forest behind his house and closed his eyes, trying to draw the details sharper in his mind’s eye so he could put them on the paper. 

Half an our dripped by in a relaxed, gentle silence. Then Feliciano stood up and stretched, reaching his fingertips up towards the ceiling and then folding himself back over and moving his neck side to side. he turned the radio in the corner on, switching it to some Italian opera he occasionally hummed along with or sang softly. 

Ludwig sometimes glanced up at him over his own paper, because it seemed Feliciano would occasionally be acting out the scenes with dramatic facial expressions and wild gesticulations with his paintbrush. He smiled at Feliciano and blushed at him, then stared back at his painting with his heart starting to beat a little harder for seemingly no reason other than even after all this time, Feliciano still made him nervous. 

When he was finally satisfied with his painting Ludwig set down his supplies and flexed his hand to try and get the cramp out of it. He leaned against the window and looked back down at the sea through the branches hovering in front of the window, at the thin line of white where the surf broke on the shore. 

“Are you finished?” Feliciano asked. Ludwig nodded. 

“It’s not great. I tried to paint the woods behind my house,” He said, showing Feliciano his painting. Feliciano bounced over and sat beside him, smiling with pleasant surprise, which gave him a little nudge of pride. 

“Impressive shading,” Feliciano said. “You got the dilution perfect. It looks like a beautiful place,” he went on. 

“It is,” Ludwig said. “It’s probably my favorite place in the whole world.” His face fell. “I wish I could see it again.” He set the painting back down on the easel and sighed out his nose. Feliciano took Ludwig’s hand and held it between his on his lap.

“You’ll see it again,” Feliciano said, squeezing his hand. “You _will_. I know it. Mama says I’m a little bit psychic,” he added. Ludwig raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything. Feliciano kissed him on the cheek, then down his jaw and the side of his neck. Ludwig closed his eyes and tilted his head to the side a bit, pressing the crown of his head to the window. 

Feliciano braced a hand on his thigh. Ludwig put the side of his hand to Feliciano’s face and tilted it up to his to kiss him, and in that moment he realized how much he had missed it. He dug his hand into Feliciano’s hair and pulled him closer to the point it made his mouth hurt, but he wanted to hold on to him as hard as he could because he didn’t know when he would ever get the chance to after this hour just before the sun reached its peak in the sky and it was warm but not hot. 

He didn’t think he had ever really understood until this second the urge to tear someone’s clothes off. All he could think about was how Feliciano that night at the lake and how the setting sun hit the lovely shapes of his body, drawn by a precise hand. How badly he wanted to run his hands over them, taste them on his tongue. 

Ludwig sank down against the wall and pulled Feliciano along with him. Feliciano laughed a little in surprise and straightened up, sitting on Ludwig’s lap with his legs on either side of his hips and his hands over Ludwig’s heart. He raised them to the button on his collar and undid it with an unnecessary precision and a wily smile. Impatient, Ludwig undid the buttons himself and wrestled himself out of the jacket, nearly unseating Feliciano in his haste. 

Feliciano pushed himself up so Ludwig could kick his trousers off and he undid the buttons of his own shirt and the buckle on his belt. Feliciano kissed his collarbone and the dip between them, then down between his sternum. Ludwig tangled his fingers in Feliciano’s hair, fingernails rasping faintly on his scalp. His hair was so soft, it smelled like paint and oak, and it curled around Ludwig’s fingers as if every last nerve of his body wanted to be closer to him. 

His fingers followed the edges and curves and lines of Ludwig’s torso, watch the progress of his hands as if he were mesmerized by something beautiful and unexplainable that he would never see again. 

“I wish you had never left me,” Feliciano whispered. 

“I wish I’d never left,” Ludwig rasped. 

Feliciano smiled and nuzzled his cheek. “I’m glad we agree,” he said, his hands lingering low on Ludwig’s hips. “Ludwig.” Feliciano’s voice was in his his ear, brushing the helix of it. He put his hands over Ludwig’s, which were on his knees. “Don’t be shy. Touch me,” he murmured, sliding them up his thighs. Ludwig stared at him, just marveling him, then sat up and slid his hands up to cup his shoulder blades. 

He kissed Feliciano’s chest and his hands got restless on his back. Feliciano put his hands on Ludwig’s shoulders and smiled down at him while he kept pressing his mouth to every bit of Feliciano’s skin he could reach, shifting his hips underneath him and breathing hard against his sternum. 

Feliciano rocked back and forth on his lap, holding onto his hips hard with his legs. He braced himself on the wall beside Ludwig’s head, tilting his head to suck at his neck. Ludwig tipped his head back against the well and put his hands back to his waist, tripping over his name in between his sharp breaths and soft groans. 

Feliciano grinned against Ludwig’s neck and then nibbled at his jaw. “Ludwig, I can’t kiss you,” he muttered against the bottom of his chin. “Not interested?” he added with a sort of pout, and Ludwig leaned forward and caught him off guard with an insistent kiss. 

If only things were always so sweet, so gentle. If only the air always smelled like summer and the salt of the sea, and the sun fell on his bare skin and made him warm, and Feliciano was here with him, so close, so, so close. There was so much color in this room, and it smelled like paint, and there was still music pouring from the radio. Why couldn’t every moment be like this? Would it really be possible to bore of this?

Feliciano gave a breathless laugh above him as he fell back against the wall, breathing hard. “You’re so red,” he giggled. “Even your shoulders,” he added, smoothing his hands over them. Ludwig kissed the side of Feliciano’s arm and looked back up at him with a doting smile that made Feliciano crumble. He hugged Ludwig. 

“You don’t have to go yet, do you?” 

“Not yet,” Ludwig murmured, running a hand down Feliciano’s back. “But soon.” Feliciano nodded and stood up, reaching for one of the cloths he usually used for paint thinner to clean himself off. 

“I wish you could stay,” Feliciano insisted, cuddling up to his chest. Ludwig put an arm around him.

“I do to,” his voice broke and he shut his eyes. Feliciano looked up.

“Ludwig? Don’t cry,” he murmured, kissing him on the cheek and holding his face in his hands.

“I’m not,” Ludwig insisted. “I just… I just want this to be over.” 

“I know, love,” Feliciano said. “I know. We all do. And it will, it will end, and then you can go back to Germany and see your brother and Roderich can play something on the piano for you, and you can go take a hike into the woods, and I’ll be there too, if you want me to.” 

“Of course I do,” Ludwig said. “I love you, Feliciano, and I don’t want to leave you.” Feliciano just closed his eyes and hugged him. Ludwig kissed the top of his head, letting himself fall into the moment and hoping he would never come back from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to google “history of condoms” for this and oof


	16. Outwalked

Whatever sight Lovino had expected to meet him in his father’s studio, it wasn’t Feliciano laying half-naked beside an equally partially dressed American soldier. He stopped up short and stood still in the doorframe, seeing the soldier’s eyes snap open. He sat up fast, almost too fast, putting an arm around Feliciano with his hand fumbling as if for the sturdy hilt of a gun. 

“Lovino!” Feliciano said. He didn’t sound quite embarrassed, or distressed, but definitely uncomfortable. 

“You little temptress, have you been out here seducing soldiers, Feliciano?” Lovino yelled. He hoped it was just that. He hoped his little brother was just up to his tricks, not condemned to the life he was living, sneaking around in alleys and stealing stealing kisses in hidden corners so dark it was like being submerged in ink. He slammed the door, breathing hard. 

“Lovi…?” Antonio reached to put a hand on his shoulder. “What is it?” 

“This is a house of chaos and sin.” Lovino said, sighing and then pulling the door back open. “Come on, Feliciano, and you…” he crossed the room. “Get out of my house!” Feliciano leapt up, a flurry of words coming from his mouth about Ludwig being his friend from the army, but Lovino didn’t want to hear it. This wouldn’t happen to Feliciano, too. Not his little brother. “I don’t care, leave!” Lovino said. Ludwig grabbed his jacket off the floor and rushed from the room. 

“Lovino!” Feliciano glared at his brother. Tears were leaking onto his cheeks and he stuttered when he spoke. “W-what the hell is wrong with you?” Feliciano ran past him, out the door, and Lovino knew he was running to Ludwig. 

Lovino spun up the stairs, intent on burying himself in his blankets. 

He hid his face in his pillow, his hair laying stringy beside him from the wind off the sea earlier. It smelled like stale salt and there was still sand on his feet from the shore. He closed his eyes, shutting them tightly until he felt himself beginning to relax, dropping into the limbo between sleep and waking, or just sleeping, (he wasn’t sure), until he heard the door creak.

“Lovi?” Lovino felt a hand against his shoulder that had grown stiff due to his refusing to move as he faced the window and the darkening sky. “Lovi, sweetheart, are you awake?” He turned over his shoulder and saw Antonio looking back, the light seeping from the lamp beside him, giving him a sort of halo. He rolled over and laid his head in Antonio’s lap. Antonio gently rubbed Lovino’s shoulder, then raised his hand to brush the hair from Lovino’s forehead. “Are you okay?” 

“Am  _ I _ ?” Lovino asked. “You should be worrying about Feliciano, not me. He’s right. I’m just a dick.” He put his hands over his eyes, even the faint light through his eyelids too much. “I’m just  _ mean _ ,” his voice cracked and his lip wavered, but he still didn’t cry. “I even treat  _ you _ like shit, and you’re the nicest person I know, you always know how to make people feel better and I’m just an asshole.” 

“No Lovi…” Antonio whispered. “We are all a product of our circumstances.” He stroked Lovino’s hair off his forehead, cradling Lovino’s cheek with his other. “I know why you lashed out like that, and that’s why I have to ask… is me being here worth it to you?” 

“Yes,” Lovino curled his fingers in the fabric of Antonio’s pants, shutting his eyes tighter. “I want you to stay. But I don’t want my brother to have to sneak around, I don’t want him hurt, because it hurts me everyday that I can’t hold your hand when we walk down the street, or take you somewhere nice… ” Lovino whispered. “But you’re enough, Antonio, you’ve always been more than enough. It’s just… being here...” 

“Then let’s go somewhere else. Let’s go to Paris, after all this is over.” Antonio said with a grin. Lovino shook his head. 

“You stupid romantic, of course you’d want to go there.”

**_____________**

_ Planes.  _ Feliciano opened his eyes when he heard then, roaring, maybe even making the walls shake, but Feliciano was too tired to register if that was his imagination or not. Sleep was making him feel stupid and slow so he closed his eyes and tried to ignore them, but in the morning he would remember the sounds of those engines in his empty room with the terror of the time he had nearly drowned, dark water pressing in on him at all sides, unable to scream, unable to move. 

In the morning Antonio would take his hands and apologize, and Feliciano would run out the door, would run until he stopped at the café and his eyes grew wet and wild, hoping, praying, but only nothingness greeted him. He would stumble back home and fall into his brother’s arms while Antonio sat beside the radio. 

_...more bombs dropped over Palermo, German efforts to combat the—  _ And the radio would go dead, because Antonio would switch it off, because neither he nor Lovino could bear to see Feliciano cry like that. 

Maybe later he’d stumble into the studio washed with sun and stare at the canvases on their easels. He’d glare at the painting of Ludwig who he had so carefully studied to replicate on that paper and become lost in frustration as he kept gazing at it. Something was missing. Something was wrong. He’d throw that stupid painting onto the ground and fall to his knees, holding his head in his arms until someone came. 

But for now, his consciousness dragged him under peaceably, comforting as his mother’s arms. He thought nothing of any of that right now. 

  
  



	17. Or Say Goodbye

_ November 1944 _

_ Mutti used to make this amazing apple cake from the apples in our orchard. Autumn was my favorite season because of the apples.  _ Feliciano stared down the road, a dull ache pounding in his chest. He had heard nothing from Ludwig, but there were no records announcing him dead, and Feliciano would not believe it. He stared at his own tired reflection in the windows, his eyes unfocused as a leaf drifted lazily towards the browning grass. 

He had been a fool. His own fantasies had run away with them as they always had. All those months of dreaming and waiting for Ludwig to return to him, to stand and hold out his arms and let Feliciano run into them, that had never been realistic, had it? But Ludwig was alive, that he was sure. 

He believed it. He  _ knew _ it, and no matter how often Lovino tried to tell him to forget, he wouldn’t let go. He stared at the grey autumn sky and touched Antonio’s cross necklace buried in his pocket, and he prayed, prayed that somewhere, somehow, Ludwig was alive. And maybe, if the Universe was generous enough, maybe he was smiling. 

**_____________**

  
  


The cellar door cracked open with a snap that rung terror through every nerve like a gunshot. Roderich stopped breathing. His heart stopped beating. 

“Move back, old man!” This time a real gunshot, and a feeling broke over Roderich, like he was no longer entitled to experience reality. Aldrich cried out and then there was the harsh sound of his body hitting the floor, a gasp following it with the impact. Roderich held onto his knees, digging his nails in, panic filling up his lungs. “Now tell me where he is,  _ now _ !” Silence. Another gunshot, and this time Aldrich groaned only weakly. More footsteps.

Restless. Closer. Louder. The darkness swelled up around Roderich, waves of a vast ocean pushing him down, down, down towards depths where there was no light. Closer, louder. 

The shelf was pulled back, and the darkness was gone. For one wonderful moment, there was light again for the first time in months and years. And then a shadow and the night was back, the dark waves rolled and roiled over his head. He waited for the water to fill up his lungs to leave no room for air, for stale seawater to settle in his stomach, for the pressure of the deep to split his skull. Above the rush of the waves he heard her, Elizabeta, screaming. 

Up, up the stairs. His glasses… where were his glasses? He could barely hear anything but her screaming, her sobbing, and see the blur of Gilbert standing crouched beside her like something feral in the dark woods that swallowed up the hill behind their home. 

And under the weight of the waves, Roderich let go. 

The clocks hands stilled. Gilbert raced down the basement steps. “Vati! Vati!” He collapsed on the floor beside Aldrich, who raised a hand to Gilbert’s shoulder. Blood seeped into the dirty stone floor and made Gilbert’s knees burn as it soaked into his pants. 

“I’m not going to die.” Aldrich said, shutting his eyes and clenching his jaw. When he spoke, it was through gritted teeth. “He shot me in the leg, but it’s manageable. Consider it a blessing that right now there’s no time for you to think and only for you to act.” Gilbert slung an arm around his father’s shoulders, looking up hopefully at where Elizabeta stood in the doorway. She started down the stairs, clutching the railing and stumbling when she let go to reach them. 

She tried to help Gilbert lift Aldrich and lead him up the steps, but she was shaking too badly. She tripped and collapsed on the stairs. The silence broke and then she was screaming again, clawing at the wood, sobbing as though she was being burned alive. 

Gilbert wanted to go to her, but he was too numb, he couldn’t process anything more than getting his father to a doctor. There was one close, down the road, he knew… 

Besides, if he went to her, he knew she wouldn’t let him close. She clutched at the railing, cursing the world, yelling until her voice cracked. But it was nothing compared to when the fight suddenly went out of her and she slumped on the stairs with her face in her hands, her body barely holding her up. Gilbert’s eyes found her hand, where a thin silver band glinted on her finger, a diamond winking in the dull light. 

There was nothing left they could do. 

So, they waited. Feliciano, Lovino, Antonio. Gilbert and Elizabeta. They waited every day for some sign, for some shred of  _ something  _ to prove their hope wasn’t in vain. Tears seemed pointless now, and they offered no more relief because the kind of pain that this sort of loss brought was not the kind tears would take away.

December was listless. Rain in Rome, snow scattering the ridges of the distant mountains in Ludwig’s village. Feliciano stared at his empty canvases and lifted his brushes, but every movement was painful, every painting was never satisfactory. Lovino sat with his parents in the living room, gathered close to the radio. Antonio went home for Christmas. Gilbert looked after his father who was recovering slowly but successfully. Elizabeta sat by the windows and watched the snow. There was no music. 

January was dreary, winter clutching on strong and forcing Feliciano to shutter up his room tightly, making the air feel suffocating. Under grey skies he dreamed of the colors of blue eyes and sunsets high above the clouds. Elizabeta ran her fingers over the piano keys, trying to play whatever melody she had when Roderich had put his hands over hers and smiled at her as she followed his lead, the first day he had ever kissed her. 

February remained just as biting. They all searched for signs of spring, but there were none. 

When March came, the rain began, and it lingered all through April so the whole world was garish silver and grey. 

And then May. 

Feliciano opened the windows again and started smiling when the sun peered out beyond clouds. Elizabeta picked crocuses from the yard and put them in a glass of water on the windowsill of the room she and Roderich had once shared. Lovino and Antonio stayed around the radio, crying out in joy when the news came that Germany had surrendered. They clutched at each other and Lovino even laughed aloud, yelling for Feliciano to come downstairs.

It was after nearly six years, finally, the world began to right itself. 

  
  



	18. On His Beat

_ May 1945 _

Alfred Jones had gotten used to people drifting in and out of his life. He didn’t like to forget about them, though. Sometimes he still hoped to see them again, or at least offer them some help, though lots of people he had met in recent years he was likely to never see again. 

Only two days before Germany’s surrender, Alfred had aided in liberating the Mauthausen camp in Austria. Despite everything he had seen on the battlefield, nothing could have prepared him for what he saw there. 

It was there he met Roderich Edelstein, a name oddly familiar though he couldn’t describe why, seeing as he was sure he’d never met Roderich. Alfred attempted to speak with him, not wanting to press anything but Roderich seemed to want an audience, though his voice was weak and all he said was the same few things over and over again: that he had a fiancée and he needed to get back to her and if Ludwig was okay. Then Alfred realized where he recognized that name. 

He offered to take Roderich back home. In the back of the car Roderich reached to touch his ear. He asked Alfred if he could sing and if he knew any songs. Alfred offered up the least mediocre tune he knew, something drifting from a radio somewhere. He hoped it might ease the pain from Roderich’s face, but it only made his eyes fill with tears.

**_____________**

There was a knock on the door. Elizabeta jumped up from the couch and bolted to throw it open. If it was true, if it was  _ really  _ true… Her hands went to her mouth when she saw a man standing in the doorway, Roderich listing hard on his arm. He was young and introduced himself as Alfred Jones, captain in the American military, as he helped Roderich inside. The clothes Roderich wore were the layers he usually would adorn, but it was clear he was trying to disguise how thin he was, which was given away by his sunken face, his hands badly bruised and bandaged from labor. 

“Roderich, Roderich!” She threw her arms around his shoulders. She felt his collarbones, his scapulas. He hid his face against her shoulder as Alfred moved back to give them space. “Roderich, you’re home, oh you’re home, you’re alive…” She felt his hands go to her arms and she looked down at his pleading eyes. 

“Elizabeta?” He said. His voice sounded slightly timid, cracked and rough around the edges. 

“What is it, sweetheart, what…?” 

“Elizabeta, I can’t hear you,” she saw tears springing in his eyes. “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.” Roderich whispered. “I can’t hear  _ anything _ .” Frustration cracked through his weak inflection. Elizabeta’s eyes widened. “I can’t… I can’t hear your voice…” Roderich rested his forehead on Elizabeta’s collarbone and she felt a tear patter onto her sternum. “I can’t hear music…” 

Everyone had something that they made their own, some vessel to pour themselves into. Music had always been Roderich’s. His musical genius was wasted out on that small farm in the foothills of the Austrian Alps with only the birds to hear his symphonies. He was utterly possessed with ambition and the light in his bedroom window guttered on late into the night as he seemed to never want to stop writing, always wanting to reach new heights, create a new sound that could enthrall any audience. There were no doubts in the minds of anyone who had heard his music that one day he could command the attention of Chopin and Tchaikovsky. 

Anyone with that sort of talent would never be kept away from it forever, but never being able to hear music again, or birds, or the familiar voices of the people you knew and loved… 

“Shattered eardrums. Must’ve been a bomb, but I don’t know when it happened.” Alfred was muttering. “I talked to an army doctor and he said depending on the severity Roderich might gain some of his hearing back eventually, but likely only very low frequencies.”

Elizabeta felt Roderich take her hands and she helped him up as he struggled to stand. She sank down beside him on the couch, but Roderich tugged her hand gently and pulled her upright, wandering to the empty piano bench that he had once sat at not knowing it would be the last time he heard music from the keys. 

He lifted the cover and there was a collective silence, not knowing what to expect. Alfred was bracing himself, as though he thought Roderich might slam the keys. Instead Roderich just settled his fingers onto them, inhaling shakily and peering down through his glasses. And then he began to play, slowly at first, his normal careful hand. 

Though his hands shook, the music was sweet and clear as it always had been for the first few minutes of playing, but then it broke off discordantly. He collapsed against the piano, digging his elbows down and hiding his face in his hands, fingers scrubbing against his scalp. 

“Roderich, oh, Rod…” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, kissing his sunken cheeks wet with tears. He drew back from the piano, gently cupping her cheeks and brushing the spots just beneath her eyes, wiping away the tears slipping down her face. 

“I’ll be okay. I’m alive,” he said softly, so quietly she had to lean down to hear him. “I’m alive, and I’m home. I’m going to marry you,” he shifted and took Elizabeta’s hands. “We’re going to get married.” He smiled. 

“Music school, too,” Elizabeta said, then paused. She got up and grabbed a notepad and scribbled her words down. 

“No.” Roderich said. “I can’t.”  _ You can still play! Beethoven was deaf and he’s one of the greatest composers in the world!  _ “I’m not him, darling.” Roderich shook his head. “I want to hear it, I want to hear it again… One more time…” His fingers played across the keys, a string of notes that sounded oddly sweet, but neither Alfred nor Elizabeta of them knew the melody. “But I’m not sad. I’m alive. I’m home, and you’re here with me.” He whispered. He reached for the cover and slowly let it drop down over the keys. 

“Aldrich and Gilbert?” Roderich asked. 

_ They’re at the market. _ Elizabeta promised.  _ We didn’t expect you so soon. _

“Ludwig?” Elizabeta brushed Roderich’s hair from his forehead, his eyes imploring as he looked at her. She reached to scribble on the paper again, but her hand shook too badly so she let it fall. He understood well enough. 

  
  



	19. I Have Been One

_September 1945_

September was unusually cold again, and Gilbert had wrapped himself in a blanket beside the fire, a book in one hand and mug of tea in the other. He was completely resigned to stay there the whole day and ready to fight whoever had just knocked on the door for making him get up. He disentangled himself from the blanket and set the tea and the book down on the table, sighing as he went to open the door. His heart was beating up in his throat with stifled anticipation as it always did when someone knocked unannounced. 

Gilbert opened the door. He let out a dry sob and tripped out onto the porch to where Ludwig was standing, throwing his arms around Ludwig before even getting a chance to register his facial expression. Ludwig tightened his arms around Gilbert’s back so much his blood circulation was failing, but he didn’t care.

“You’re home, oh my God, you’re home!” Gilbert let go of him. He was twenty now but the lines on his face were of someone who had seen many more years, his hands leathery to the touch, arms scarred up from what Gilbert had guessed were once harsh burns. The scars curled along part of his neck and the bottom of his jaw. “I’m so sorry, Luddy,” Gilbert whispered, hugging him again. Ludwig silently hugged him back and they stood like that on the porch for several minutes, Gilbert swaying slightly and rubbing Ludwig’s back with one hand. Then he called Aldrich, who limped out onto the porch with the help of a cane he tossed to the ground upon seeing his son. 

He took Ludwig in his arms and held him to his chest, putting a hand on the back of his head. His eyes were filled with tears and he seemed in disbelief, shoulders beginning to shake. But he was smiling, smiling wildly and incredulously. He leaned away, holding onto Ludwig’s shoulders. He was a little taller than Aldrich now. “Ludwig, I missed you. I’m so glad… I…. _you’re safe_. My son… I’m so sorry for what they did to you.” He hugged Ludwig again. 

“What happened to your leg, Vati?” He murmured. 

“It doesn’t matter.” He reached and touched the side of Ludwig’s face, eyes flicking to the webwork of scar tissue along the corner of his jaw and the side of his neck. “Come inside. Come by the fire, I’ll make you tea and you can call Elizabeta. She wants to know if you’re alright, and Roderich too.” Ludwig nodded and they went inside. He sank into the couch and Gilbert threw his own blanket over Ludwig, sitting in the chair across from him. Ludwig fought to stay awake, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open in the warmth, in the utter safety of his home. 

**_____________**

Feliciano had mostly forgotten his hope by the middle of September. If Ludwig had been alive, if there had been any hope for his return, surely it would have shown itself by now. The war was over, October on steady advance. The trees were beginning to drop their leaves to rain-soaked ground once again, the skies knitted thick grey. 

The pain had eased. It was true that time did make things easier, but acceptance somehow felt worse than the original pain, because it meant that whatever shred of hope that things might not be the way they were was gone. This was reality, and nothing would ever change it. 

So he didn’t let himself hope. When Lovino went downstairs and the door opened and Feliciano heard voices, one of a cadence that sounded very familiar, he pretended he couldn’t hear it so he didn’t rouse the hopeful bird wishing to raise its wings once more. Things were always going to be like this, weren’t they? He was going to be haunted by Ludwig his whole life. The stairs creaked behind him. Someone knocked on the door, and Antonio walked in, grinning. 

“Feli,” he muttered. “Feliciano, there’s someone here to see you,” he was smiling. Feliciano nodded. Someone looking for commissions, he was sure. Every time a car had pulled up like this and he had dared to hope, it was just that. 

“Right.” Feliciano stepped away from his painting and drew his smock over his head in an effort to look more presentable, and then he stopped up short. Antonio was backing down the stairs, but in his place was Ludwig, really Ludwig. When Feliciano saw him it was like the sun had risen at midnight but the stars still hung in the sky. All those daydreams, all those fantasies he had scorned himself for.

Ludwig opened his arms and Feliciano ran into them, laughing aloud when Ludwig picked him up and spun him, setting him down lightly on the wooden floors splashed with paint and hesitant autumnal sun. Feliciano rested his forehead and hands against Ludwig’s chest, curling close to the warm fabric of his sweater that smelled like him, just him, not blood or metal or sweat or dirt. Ludwig put his arms around Feliciano and rested his chin on Feliciano’s head, holding him as close as he was physically able. 

“So this is your studio?” Ludwig asked. Feliciano nodded, letting go. Ludwig leaned down and kissed Feliciano’s forehead. “Don’t cry.” He whispered quickly as he cupped Feliciano’s jaw, his fingers brushing against his hair that felt like the edges of feathers. “Don’t cry, not anymore. It’s over. There’s no reason to.” Ludwig murmured. 

“Sometimes I cry when I’m happy,” Feliciano said, reaching and taking Ludwig’s hands. “How long are you staying?” He asked softly. 

“For as long as you want.” Ludwig said. “I want to do this properly. Take you to dinner, take you dancing…” Feliciano laughed and raised Ludwig’s arm up to spin in a neat circle and settle up against his chest again. “And you need to meet my family, and Roderich, and Elizabeta. Gilbert is debilitatingly difficult to get along with, but you can find the good in anyone. I won’t leave anymore.” 

“I thought you’d died,” Feliciano whispered. “Why didn’t you write?” Surely there was a good reason, surley… 

“When they bombed the base, I… I was hurt so badly I couldn’t move. I don’t remember anything but laying in the dirt and struggling to breathe and shrapnel in my legs. I suppose the others thought I was dead, and I did too. Someone must have saved me but I don’t know who, because then I was waking up somewhere else. 

“It took months for me to be able to get out of bed. I could hardly walk at first and they were going to send me home, but decided I shouldn’t be moved. I could sit up in bed and once the burns on my arm healed I wrote to you, but I wasn’t allowed to send them. 

“When I heard how close we were to the end, I had to fight. And I did. I had to keep going because for as long as the war went on I could never see the people who mattered most to me. I couldn’t let them win. As soon as I was released I took a train home and spent a week there but I had to see you, and I figured if I sent you a letter it wouldn’t even get here until I would so I chose just to come instead.” Feliciano nodded. 

He put his hand to the back of Ludwig’s neck, the other on his cheek, and kissed him. Ludwig kissed him back, his arms still around his torso. Feliciano got down off his tiptoes. 

“Let’s go downstairs. Papa made a fire and Antonio’s playing his guitar. You like music, right?” Feliciano asked brightly. Ludwig nodded. “Everyone loves music.” Feliciano said, shutting the door of the studio. Romulus and Aurelia were both equally talkative and friendly to Ludwig, offering him fresh, still-warm zeppoles which sent a snowfall of powdered sugar onto his legs when he bit down. Feliciano leaned against Ludwig’s side, taking his arm and putting it over his own shoulders. 

Antonio was sitting beside Lovino, strumming his guitar and singing while Aurelia poured wine for them all. 

Ludwig laughed with them. He sang along to the familiar songs Antonio played. The heat of the fire seemed to spread through his skin down into his whole body, warm and real and for once he would no longer have to tell himself _everything will be okay_ because this was that moment he had been wishing for and wanting all those years. There would be no more tears, no more fear for the future. There would be no more huddling alone in the dark. 

There would only be his family, and his friends, and Feliciano, who smiled like sunlight so that this was the sunniest spot in all of Rome.


	20. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> C'est finit! 
> 
> I can't believe it's finally done!! It's honestly a little bittersweet for me.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed it and I wanted to say a thank you so much for the kudos and comments, it genuinely brightens my day ❤️

_April 1950_

“I am the pinnacle of human beauty.” Gilbert said, smoothing his lapels and grinning at his reflection in the mirror over Ludwig’s shoulder. He wasn’t paying attention, instead nervously worrying at his hair and trying to flatten the loose strands. 

“Yet you still can’t be bothered to brush your hair.” His voice was deadpan as he spoke, still squinting at his reflection. Gilbert sighed sadly and flopped down onto the end of the bed, resting his chin in his hands. He looked towards the windows at the city lights of Vienna, winking at him like some beautiful stranger enticing him from across the bar. He understood why Ludwig was being so finicky about his appearance: tonight was the premier of Roderich’s first symphony, performed at the Musikverein in the Golden Hall. 

Ludwig had visited Roderich a few times since moving to Amsterdam with Feliciano in a small canal house, lovely as the flowers that grew in the window boxes. He hadn’t been home to Germany much but for holidays after the first four months there until his father had healed fully and Roderich was starting to become himself again, after which he and Elizabeta moved to Austria. He spent days crumpled over his desk scribbling on staffs, sometimes falling asleep there in the stiff wood-backed chair.

Lovino and Antonio disappeared for months without a word and when they came back Lovino was laughing so easily Feliciano got worried and fought Lovino to get a hand on his forehead and make sure he wasn’t burning with fever. This just got him irritated and proved quite conclusively he was still himself. 

Gilbert sighed dramatically again. “Well, _I_ think you look great. Very handsome.” Gilbert said, bouncing off the bed and slapping Ludwig on the shoulder. “Still, I’ve always had more charm than you. I have that dishevelled charisma,” he added, sighing while ruffling his already mussed hair. When Ludwig still ignored him, he said, “come on, Lud. Bet your boyfriend thinks your hair down is hot.”

Ludwig smiled weakly, not because he found Gilbert’s comment very amusing but because he was so lucky both Feliciano’s family and his own had not cared about their relationship. _If this horrible ordeal has taught any of us anything, it’s that we do not assign blame and hate to those just because we are told to hate them,_ Feliciano’s mother had said. 

“Okay, let’s go.” Ludwig said, collecting his gloves from the table where he had set them down. Feliciano had already walked over with Lovino and Antonio. Their shoes clacked on the cement streets, wet from a half-hearted rainstorm that had lamented over the city a few hours earlier. He liked walking beside Gilbert; it made him ache for days spent messing around in the woods and playing football in the big fields behind his village. 

When they walked into the Musikverein and found Roderich, Ludwig got another twist in his stomach. Roderich, writing his music. Humming his melodies. Making Elizabeta giggle and blush even though Gilbert ruthlessly teased her. And now he was here, standing upright but not stiff, smiling at people who Elizabeta was translating for. 

“You look beautiful, Elizabeta.” Ludwig murmured. 

“Thank you, Luddy.” She reached forward and hugged him. She smelled like makeup and white tea perfume. “You two are almost late. Come on, we’ve got to get into our seats.” She said, waving them after her. “The ushers showed me our spots already.” They wished Roderich luck and slipped into the hall, settling into the slightly uncomfortable wooden seats. Ludwig sat beside Feliciano, who looked over to smile almost dreamily at him. Ludwig put the edge of his elbow on the armrest so they could touch without catching attention.

Everyone fell silent as the orchestra began warming up onstage, clapping when Roderich reached the conductor’s podium. He always insisted on conducting his symphonies. 

There was tension in Roderich’s shoulders as he watched the concert master. The orchestra began tuning, slightly chaotic yet harmonic as bows were dragged across strings and the brass joined in. Ludwig frowned, wishing he could somehow tell Roderich to relax. He didn’t worry. Roderich never failed to put on a show when it really mattered, when it came to his music. 

He stayed tense, his motions clipped throughout the first movement, but towards the middle the weight seemed to finally release him. He began to move as though he was dancing under starry skies with his own melodies. Ludwig closed his eyes, his attention on the music and the faint brush of Feliciano’s arm against his own. The symphony was long but never tiring, changing like ocean tides and leaves in the fall. 

When he finally let his arms drop at the end of the last chord, there was a short breath of silence. Then applause like like Ludwig had never heard in his life. Feliciano jumped up and everyone quickly followed him, standing and clapping until nobody in the place could feel their palms, yet continued anyway. 

Elizabeta was clapping and rocking up and down on her heels beside Gilbert, who was cheering with the spirit of someone whose favorite soccer team had won. Romulus was wiping his eyes on his sleeve. All Ludwig could do was blink away tears and smile up at Roderich until he caught Roderich’s gaze when he turned around. For a moment he looked panicked but the second he saw everyone standing and applauding, he smiled a smile Ludwig had never seen on his face before, the sort of smile Feliciano got sometimes when he finished a painting he was particularly proud of. A look that said _yes, this is who I am. This is what I’m meant to do._

The second Roderich walked over the them, chaos broke out. Elizabeta ran and hugged him, and Roderich kissed her and dipped her so her long hair nearly touched the floor. Elizabeta laughed as he drew her upright, kissing him on the cheek and then wiping the tears from her eyes. Ludwig hugged them both and Feliciano threw himself on top of the trio in a sobbing mess, joined a second later by Gilbert. 

_Roderich, that was amazing. Look how far you’ve come. You’re the most courageous person I know._ Ludwig said when they’d broken apart. _Congratulations._ Roderich smiled, adjusting his glasses to hide his own tears. 

“Tell him I’ve never heard more beautiful music in all my life,” Feliciano said. Ludwig translated and Roderich smiled at Feliciano. 

“Thank you, Feli.” He said. “I’m so glad you all loved it.” Aldrich hurried over and put a hand to Roderich’s cheek. 

“Your parents would be so proud of you.” He murmured. “I can’t imagine anyone else they would have wanted their son to become.” Aldrich hugged him and Roderich stood up to hug him back.

Aldrich hugged him so long that it was only by the time Aurelia, Romulus, Lovino, and Antonio had picked their way through the crowds that they finally broke apart. Aurelia put her arm around Romulus’s shoulder as he sobbed against her.

“Alright, that’s plenty of crying for one night!” Elizabeta said impatiently. “Rod rented out the hotel lounge for the night. Let’s go celebrate!” She grinned as Roderich put his arms around her waist. 

“I’m tired,” he muttered, resting his forehead on her shoulder. Elizabeta barely heard him over the crowd. He stepped away from her as a few people started inching towards them, but Elizabeta grabbed his hand and dragged him away, knowing he’d done enough talking for one night. 

Feliciano and Ludwig walked through the lobby and outside into the cool night. Feliciano paused, digging his hands into his coat pockets and inhaling the spring air before they continued their urban hike back to the hotel, where the walked up to their hotel room to change. 

“I’m so happy, Ludwig,” Feliciano murmured, standing against the window and looking out at the brilliance of Vienna. 

“Me too, _liebling_.” Ludwig leaned and kissed him on the cheek. Feliciano tilted his head and giggled and put his arms around Ludwig’s waist, resting his chin on his chest and looking up at him. 

“I love you.” He murmured, pushing himself up on his tiptoes to kiss Ludwig. “I love you so much.” He whispered, sliding his hands up over Ludwig’s hair and resting them on his nape to kiss him again on the cheek, the jaw, the side of his neck, before sinking down off the tips of his toes. “I’d steal the stars from the sky if it would make you smile,” he whispered. 

“Feliciano…” Ludwig whispered, his voice almost weak as he hugged Feliciano and swayed softly where they stood in front of the glittery window. “I love you too.” He murmured, then sighed against Feliciano’s hair. “Elizabeta’s going to come yell at us to come downstairs any second now.” Ludwig muttered, checking over his shoulder. 

“Then let’s go.” Feliciano said, grabbing Ludwig’s hand and pulling him towards the door with a grin. “This is just intermission. We’ll return to the show later.” Ludwig shook his head, a wry smile pulling at his lips. “Don’t shake your head at me. I’m funny.” Feliciano said. 

“Yes, you are.” Ludwig said. 

They started downstairs, greeted by a lounge sparkly with bright lights and their grinning family and friends. Antonio was dancing by himself but was bursting at the seams with his smile, sunny as the Spanish seaside. Feliciano grabbed his brother and tried to drag him out onto the dance floor. 

“Come on Lovi, you’re so good at dancing!” He said, tugging on Lovino’s forearm. He retracted like a cat present with a hose and refused. “Stop being such a tightass!” Feliciano yelled, spinning his brother. Lovino flung himself away and retreated to the safety of his wine for a brief moment. He drank it all and then bitterly joined Feliciano on the dance floor, only to “show him how it was done.” 

Satisfied, Feliciano ran over to the edge of the dance floor and held out his hand to Ludwig. “Ludwig! Dance with me!” He called, his eyes filled with the foreign skies of a world of sun and colors. Ludwig had long since told himself such a world didn’t exist, but when Feliciano took his hands and smiled at him like that he thought maybe he would believe in it.

Even if just for this one moment.


End file.
